The tv is on
Sponge Bob is singing
The bickering begins over sitting spots and drinks
The washing machine is running It’s likely to run all day
The dishwasher is filled, but forgotten
Doors have been slammed, the microwave beeps.
It’s time for nothing, but no one slows down.
I’ve got my laptop and while my name is called incessantly, I’ll type something here and hope it makes sense.
Now the tv is off but from the study The Band blares loudly for my husband's ears. Ophelia.
The door slams again but this time the kids are outside. Their screams muffled but ever present in my ears.
I’ve got my laptop and my typing skills are good.
I’ll write and write until I absolutely must stop.
It’s hard to say what’ll make that happen. The fact that I fit any kind of decent writing in surprises me every day and I do make sure to do it every day. I must you see.
I must write. It isn’t a thing I can let go. I am not me without my writing. I don’t know how to process my life without putting it on the page or the screen to be specific.
There was once, that one summer....
The kids wanted to find out what bible camp was like.
It was free and they both wanted to go.
Go! I almost shouted. Try it!
That summer, for one solid week. The kids were at camp.
and I, I took the road less traveled and that has made all the difference.
I wrote a beautiful picture book and found an agent who thought it had promise. A whole picture book, all by myself. I was almost an author, but not quite...because I didn't follow up.
And now I know what it feels like to write with coffee by my side and a breeze blowing the curtains and the smell of just mown grass. I know that writing and it makes all these fit-ins each day feel smaller, but okay.
So I persist with fitting in ten minutes here and thirty minutes there
that the quiet ritual of coffee and breezes is offered to me again. Even for just one day.
and, anyway, I’d never give up the noise, for what would I write about?