No, I am not in Edinburgh, catching all the top acts de nos jours (damn). I am working. Uhuh, as per that list in the previous post. I have one more week left of Daddy DayCare (teacher husband) where I can type all day.
The pressure is terrifying.
Before marriage, step-kids, baby “etc”, I’d do 15 mile runs. I think I ran 500 miles the first year I left London. Sometimes, it was PJs all day, just to write. Or inspiration-filled walks, notepad in pocket (I had a real job, too, like now; it just doesn’t take every day).
Now, it’s constant clock-watching: when’s school over, when’s teatime, have I time to go to the shops? If I go to the shops, is that selfish, ‘cos they’ve given me a quiet house to work in today? Insane!
I could say, urgently, defensively, right now, “I’m not complaining!” But actually, unreasonable, childish though it might be, I obviously am a bit. I’d never swap the kids for the writing time (again, obviously), but it is …different.
Thankfully, I know that while this different way of working can be a bugger to live with (making ME a bugger to live with), it makes me a better writer. Yes, I’m plugged better into the experience of the huge numbers of parents in our society and that is huge. But more, it’s something to do with me being a better empathiser (husband, if you read this, you can get back on your chair now). I was probably just crap at it before and am now reaching the levels of normal empathy acquired by your average 13-year old.
Oh, well. Time to pop into town, then….
image (c) wannabememoirist.com