If you walk out through my kitchen door and keep walking, down to the end of the semi-enclosed barbeque area, you will find a shed. Full of odds and ends – old shelves, Christmas decorations, kittens – it is the perfect size for an office, and I spend long minutes dreaming of the day when it’s cleaned out, revamped and mine (MINE!) to write in. There’s a small window, looking towards the poppy fields.
I want to write. I wake up and I juggle fiction around breakfasts and school lunches, showers and dishes.
Shush children, Mummy is writing.
I wonder if I’m doing them a disservice by keeping this small part of me intact, unsullied by motherhood. But I think I’d be doing myself a disservice if I give everything I am to my children.
I have projects on the go everywhere, and nothing is getting my full attention.
Before Evelyn, I used to write best of an afternoon. Now we start our days at 5am and by 8pm I am dead on my feet.
But isn’t this the refrain of tired parents everywhere?
Children are demanding, housework is insidious, creativity drips from the end of our washing up gloves until we’re dried out and used up, unable to do much more than read a bedtime story and fall into bed ourselves.
Yesterday I sent all three of my children outside to frolic in the mid-afternoon sun while I locked myself in my bedroom and wrote the things I needed to get out of my head. Writing is like that. I can’t ignore it, even as I procrastinate around it.
NaNoWriMo is looming on my horizon and I’m torn between wanting desperately to participate and knowing how good it is for me, to dreading feeling the pressure. But then pressure is good. I work best under pressure, right?
Basically, to summerise: My life is hard, fiction is hard, children are hard; I wouldn’t change a single moment.