Rant - Hilary With One L

I have often read how writers have a designated time of day where they can write without interruption. Writers who work from home have routines whereby they get up, get their families ready and out the door, and then write in blissful, contented silence for the better part of the day. Sounds like nirvana to me. As luck would have it, I have to write when the mood strikes. Even if I had an office in which to lock myself, designating the hours of 9am to 3pm to just write — however delicious that seems — is setting me up for a major fail. If I feel like writing, I write. Of course, that means, if I’m in the middle of washing dishes, I stop, flip up the laptop and go. There can be several pans on the stove, the whites in a for a soak or a cupcake pan that’s only half filled; if I’ve got an idea, everything comes to a crashing halt. I’ve got to write. When I’ve poured out a few paragraph, I pick up at whatever task I’d left off and keep it moving. It’s getting increasingly frustrating to keep up that routine, though.

DH said “Let’s go out,” when he came in from work the other day, but the nuances of life crept up on us. The girls got busy coloring, he got busy surfing the ‘net and I was sifting through mail and magazines. Everyone was occupied, and a little nugget of a potential post started to grow. I put down the mail, fetched the computer and started writing. I was typing furiously. The sun started to set, cars started turning into driveways signaling the return home from the end of another day. Kids playing outside were, one after another, being called in for dinner. Our kitchen was growing dimmer in the fading light.

The kids were still playing. Coever was singing, Morgan was banging on a toy drum. The decibel level was steadily creeping towards 140. I couldn’t write like this. I was making mistakes; I lost my train of thought, jumped back on and was tossed back off. Trying to concentrate was harder than trying to make a left turn into the mall on Black Friday. Suddenly, Morgan announced that she was hungry. Coever chimed in with her constant refrain as well. But guess what?

I wasn’t hungry.

I’d had a big lunch and a Coke Zero in front of me that I had been nursing for the better part of the afternoon.

But my girls were hungry.

But I was writing.

What to do? What to do?

DH was deep into whatever he was doing, his Mac and his work computer like conjoined twins in front of him. My audible sigh went unnoticed (at least I think so). The offer to go out to eat hadn’t been repeated, so I saved my work, shut the laptop, got up, and I. Made. Dinner.

I opened the freezer, the fridge, the pantry and started creating something out of nothing. I had pans going, oil popping, water boiling and within 20 minutes, a very nice dinner.

But I still wasn’t hungry.

I just wanted to finish writing.

DH, bless him, came into the kitchen to ask what he could do to help, just as I got popped in the forehead with some stray oil spatter. Now, I was angry that I had had to stop what I was doing. I was angry that I just got scorched. I’m a woman who will say, “Nothing,” through gritted teeth when asked “What’s wrong?”. So, it should come as no surprise that I was considerably less than polite in my response to him. I just wanted to finish what I started.

Dinner was made, presented lovingly in Tupperware so it could go from table to fridge. No mess, no fuss. I even leapfrogged over the inevitable, “I don’t like this”, and I made Coever a separate dinner of a cheese stick, grapes and turkey slices, just so that she would eat it and we could avoid drama. Yes, I am officially a short order cook.

And now here I am, about to clean up the very dinner I have not even eat because (say it with me) I’m not hungry, and I’m struck by this, this situation. If I’m not hungry, do I still have to cook? If I’m in the middle of something do I still have to get up and wipe a butt? What if I stop mid-sentence and lose the thought, that million-dollar idea, that would make us independently wealthy? I mean, I’ll stop if we’re talking blood and broken bones, but for all the times there’s been a primal yell for me to wipe a nose, tie a shoe, wash some hands, or dress a Barbie? Yes, these formative years and precious moments will be behind me before I realize, but in the here and now, the very moment in which I’m living . . .I. Just.Want.To.Finish.My.

Hang on, somone’s calling me.

IN: ON: December 1, 2010 BY: Hilary 3 COMMENTS