How to Keep a Writing Practice When You Don’t Get Paid to Do It
Because You’re Raising Kids and It’s Not Your Job Because Your Job is Raising Kids
Let’s examine some options for developing a writing practice when there’s a toddler on your head and your daughter is a horse and your oldest is planning a talent show act for a show in a couple of weeks that revolves around doing tricks with a pet he has yet to acquire.
Option 1: You don’t. Always an option. No fuss. Option 2: You wake up one morning in October and decide that next year you are going to spend 292 of the 365 days on your writing for at least 30 minutes each day. You decide that 80% is “good enough” and then you tell Maurice Carlos Ruffin about your plan at the top of the year and he responds to you and you don’t quite understand how cool it is to be in something of a conversation with Maurice Carlos Ruffin even though it’s about something ludicrous like calculating the number of days you’re going to write in 2023. (He asked what goals his Sitting in Silence readers had for themselves this year.) Option 3: You take two writing classes back-to-back that require at least 60 minutes of dedicated time and concentration each day. No better way to jump start. Option 4: While taking the classes, you recognize that no matter how many times you explain politely and less politely to your kids that they cannot sit directly on top of you while you’re writing and that, also, they need to sleep until at least 6:00 AM, you plan to make up the time you miss in the morning during the toddler’s nap time. Always make plans based on things you can’t control. Option 5: You discover it’s difficult to write during nap time when the toddler decides to give up naps and spend that one- to two-hour time slot in the afternoon attached to either 1.) your neck or 2.) your leg. You’re certain he would prefer to secure himself to both your neck and leg at the same time but unfortunately he is too small. This option works against you. Option 6: You take your writing to the YMCA where your toddler is supervised by other adults. Even when all the tables are taken, you always have your child-free lap and the floor. Take advantage of every opportunity. Option 7: You write in the car while the toddler naps because his decision to nap arrives when he is in motion. You park the car on the side of the road (look at how beautiful the ice of the lake is in April) and type with a desperate fervor for the 10-12 minutes you have before 1.) the toddler wakes and complains that he is either A.) not currently in motion or B.) not at home OR 2.) you can no longer feel your fingers because you live in Minnesota and it’s “Spring” and that means there are such events as thundersnow and the temperature is 20 degrees below where it’s supposed to be. But at least you got in 10-12 minutes. Option 8: You experience kids’ sicknesses, kids’ assessments, kids’ changes in routine. And it totally sucks. Option 9: You adjust because you have to, but inside (and sometimes outside) you throw tantrums because you hate change and transition as much as your children do. In fact, you hate it more than they do. Option 10: You look at your calendar at night and plug in one writing block the following day. Here’s hoping. Option 11: The alarm sounds at 5:00 AM and you pull your toddler’s arm out of the sleeve of your pajamas and gently, silently twist your head away from your toddler’s face where it is positioned in such a way that you and he are basically breathing the same air and you wonder how you aren’t sick every other week and then you roll out of bed before he notices his mommy has left him for the first time that day and you pluck your carefully situated items from their chargers and hold your breath while you drag yourself into the bathroom where you kick one to three toy cars that populate the floor space. More than half the time he doesn’t notice immediately. Option 12: You make your way to your office (couch, cushion, pillow, floor, whatever is available) and you type for as much time as anyone will give you. The clock is ticking. Option 13: You shrug. You just do exactly as much as you can. You think of things like “offices with doors” and “leaving the house alone to write” and “having space,” and you just hope that in five to 10 years one of those things is possible. For real. Option 14: In the meantime, you do what you can.
Coming soon: Another installment of Cleave.
Three stories I like that you can find online:
Four Tales for Dry Land by Kaitlyn Greenbridge
Inversion can feel like weightlessness by Anita Goveas
Lawn Dad by Lincoln Michel
More news:
One of my stories was selected as a finalist in the Women on Writing Winter ‘23 Flash Fiction Contest.
And remember, I invite you to let me keep you accountable. I am happy to work with you on meeting your deadlines and keep you moving toward what you wanna get done. Sometimes (a lot of the time), writing is lonely, and especially when you’re starting out, you might feel like nobody really cares what you’re doing or when you’re doing it. I hear that. If you need a partner to keep you moving, I can help. Reply or comment here, or reach me on Instagram @everythingerinlunde as you’re able. I have one spot left.
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