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Posts tagged ‘children’

Jul 22

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Kelly: When Life and Art Meet Frustration

[Editor’s note: The post below was written last Tuesday, but due to an admin error it’s only getting published today. Apologies, Kelly!]

Funny thing just happened. It’s been one of those days. My secretary doesn’t really know it’s been one of those days, yet she just created and sent me this picture. Why has it been one of those days? It’s been one of those days because I yelled at my girls this morning. I rarely even raise my voice at my girls, yet I actually yelled at them this morning, out of sheer frustration I guess. Put me in the Worst Mama Ever category today. So far I’m not doing very well on the “savor the week with my girls” goal I put on the Monday page.

What caused me to lose it? I guess a combination of things really. Since my DH is working 12-16 hour days all week on a major plant project shutdown, I’m essentially a single Mom this week, a single Mom with a very demanding full-time job outside the home, a flourishing part-time business inside the home, and twin girls who will be five in three weeks. How do single Moms do it? And today is Tuesday, Water Play Day. Water Play Day requires that I goop up my girls with sunblock and swimsuit before we even leave the house, plus pack them a towel and extra change of clothes for the day. Oh, and don’t forget the money for shaved ice, Mom! Add to that the rest of the “must gather for the day” things that take place every morning and the long list of tasks awaiting me once I got to the office, and I was truly frazzled. Yet here I am talking to you.

That’s where the frustration must come out. As creative mothers, don’t we all have very lengthy to-do lists? Yet I keep adding things to my list, don’t you? The things that I want to do and the things that I must do sometimes completely crowd out the things that I absolutely must remember. What are those? Those are the reminders to stay sane. Those are the reminders to breathe and count to ten before I snap at my girls. Those are the reminders that my girls did not create my to-do lists. They did not commit me to participating in a Fat Book swap, they did not force me to procrastinate terribly on completing my calendar at work, they did not ask me to take the online Blackboard course, they did not ask for a dog for their birthday so they’d have to help take care of her, they did not even ask to play at Water Play Day. They simply asked me to love them. And I hope that those are also the reminders that it’s okay to screw up every once in a while…no, scratch that…it’s impossible not to screw up every once in a while because I am who I am. First and foremost, a living, breathing, emotional, creative creature who feels smothered when I can’t find that time for myself to create yet feel guilty when I spend time away from my children and family. So maybe Life and Art meet Frustration when we realize we simply can’t do all the things we want to do and be all the things others need us to be. So we must accept. I must accept. Accept things as they are and, just maybe, as they were meant to be.

So I go back to that list and try to remember why there is so much on it. I committed to the Fat Book swap because I want my girls to learn to take chances on new things like I do. I’ve procrastinated on my calendar because I’d rather go through the pictures we took on our family vacation. I’m taking the Blackboard class because I’d love to shift over to faculty full time to have more time with my family. We bought the girls a dog for their birthday last year so they could grow to love animals as much as we do while learning to take care of another creature. And about that Water Play Day? I selected that school for my girls for the growth it would provide them…emotionally, socially, spiritually and mentally. While I suppose there is a little selfishness in all that we do, maybe we all need to learn how to recognize the gifts we give our children by doing everything that we do. I’ll work on that. How about you? I think I’ll go look through those pictures again now….

Jul 10

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Alana: The Original Women Writers

I’ve been feeling a little daunted of late. Giving up my high flying career to look after my girls seems to have morphed into a full-time child-rearing job, combined with a (very) part-time writing career, swamped by the domestic drudgery of housekeeper, cook, cleaner and general slave to everyone else’s wishes.

As I fight a losing battle for some time to call my own (having long given up on a room of my own, a desk of my own, a moment of my own), I’m afraid writing has taken the biggest hit. As I lie under the duvet desperately grasping another ten minutes of rest I console myself that I’m not leaping out of bed earlier than my sleeping angels to write, by the fact that I’m a (now pregnant with my third) hectic mother of two under three and exhaustion has won the day. I pat myself on the back for getting through the day without causing anyone any actual physical harm, and meeting my magazine deadlines. I shrug my shoulders at the long list of writing I should / could / would be doing if only I had the time / childcare / energy – my blog (once daily, then weekly, now sporadic), other blogs, my diary, my novel.

But now I must confess to being shamed. I’m reading a book called Can Any Mother Help Me, about a group of women in the 1930’s who were stressed and bored and isolated from marriage and motherhood. In those days you gave up your job when you married and raising a handful of kids by yourself was the norm. One day a lonely woman wrote an ad in The Nursery Times asking if any other mother could help her. She was desperately lonely and isolated, and needed creative interaction. She got so many replies from so many women around the country they decided to set up their own secret magazine. They all took anonymous names and wrote articles about their lives. Taking them through their child-rearing years, through the second world war, through marriage breakdowns and life’s highs and lows, these women found solace in their writing and their friendships. The magazine – called CCC (Co-Operative Correspondence Club) – lasted for over 55 years.

Their lives where often harsh, and many had been educated but forced to become nothing more than domestic drudges after marriage. They endured bringing up their children alone and in austere circumstances during the war and they fought their own battles to find identity, creativity, and achievement. They were brave, funny, witty, enduring, strong and smart. They worked much longer and much harder than I do, and they still found time to write. For 55 years these women literally wrote the story of their lives, weaving a weapon against boredom, domestic drudgery, marriage and motherhood. Life gave them something to write about, and their writing gave their life meaning.

It’s 5.30 a.m. and I’m writing. And it feels wonderful. Thank you Creative Construction – a little modern CCC.

Jun 3

3 Comments

The Boston Globe on mothers who write

This morning’s Boston Globe ran two complementary pieces on working mothers: some who are working on their PhDs while having babies, and others who forge literary careers while raising their kids. An excerpt from the latter:

globeMany stay-at-home-mothers create new careers they can pursue at home, but it takes a dreamer, or a masochist, to choose writing. Why pick solitude, intensity, and lack of validation when stay-at-home mothering already embodies those things for many women?

Lynne Griffin, 48, a former pediatric nurse, finds writing an antidote to the isolation of stay-at-home motherhood. As a young mother she’d felt lonely and reached out to connect with other mothers. Once she trained herself to be a writer, the loneliness disappeared. “I get in the flow, and there’s no better place than that for me,” said Griffin.

In 2005, she found friendship and validation in a writing group that includes MacKinnon. “That’s why mothers seek out play groups and writers seek out writing groups – to be seen, to be heard, to be relevant,” MacKinnon said. Within two years of joining the group, Griffin’s first novel, “Life Without Summer,” was snapped up by St. Martin’s Press for the kind of advance writers fantasize about.

Finding time to write seems a special challenge for stay-at-home mothers, who describe round-the-clock responsibilities for child care and housework. They write whenever they can – in short bursts, between chores, or when their children nap. They meditate on their stories while driving or vacuuming or playing Candyland. Most said they sleep little and rise in the pre-dawn hours to write. But they believe the intensity of their two loves, family and writing, inform each other.

The piece goes on to ask if writing helps women become better mothers. Check out the full article–it will resonate for many.

Apr 13

6 Comments

Alana: A room of my own

Thanks for your comments… know you’re right about my terrible (terrific) two year old… just thought I’d share a recent blog I wrote on how to write and be a mum…

Rooms of our own

Women didn’t even have the right to vote when Virginia Woolf first voiced our need to have our own piece of space in a Room of Our Own. A hundred years later and feminism has taken us beyond Virginia’s wildest dreams I imagine. Back then as a single woman, she was refused entry into a library without the escort of a male gentleman. Today there are few, if any, buildings we cannot stride into, and even have the chance of running should we so desire or work hard enough. However, one thing remains the same. How many women – and us mothers in particular – have a room to call our own? A space that is ours? A refuge from the hurly-burly tumble of motherhood?


I for one don’t have a room of my own. Not any more. Not one room. Not even a cupboard that locks or has room enough for me to hide inside (believe me, I’ve tried!). I have two daughters under two and a half years of age, and by two my eldest had discovered the delights of trying on my new red suede high heels (scored before I’d even worn them), could reach into the drawer and unzip my make-up bag, (I won’t go into the implications of liquid blusher on a cream carpet) and stand on the windowsill to reach across my dressing table to pull my necklaces and beads off the rack. But it’s not just the physical assault on my belongings, the loss of scared things that are mine (as every mother knows – a two year lives by the motto, what’s mine is mine, and what’s everybody else’s is mine too). It’s that little pocket of solitude, that tiny oasis of space, that miniscule crevice of peace, a place to run screaming to and slam the door shut should the desire overwhelm us. My daughters have it. My husband has it – an office at work, a shed, the study. Even the damn cats have it. But somehow between being a child and having a child, I lost the right of privacy.


When I was young I had my own bedroom. Poster laden walls and heart patterned curtains with secret hiding places for furtive writings and diaries stuffed with longing. As I grew up and chased life in a tirade of exciting adventures I had many rooms, in many houses, in many towns, in many countries; rooms that, when all was said and done were mine to close the door on, and say goodbye to the world. And then, when I had wilted, recouped, rested, regathered, I could throw open the door again to say hello to world, myself intact and recovered.


I only ever actually owned one of those rooms – well, three to be precise if you included a bathroom and kitchen/lounge area – and that was the best room of all. Mine, all mine. Well, mine and the cats. I can still just grasp that glorious feeling of how good it was to wake up on a Saturday morning, the blinds still down and hiding me from the outside, the door still bolted to keep me safe inside, as I languished indulgently in my space, alone to decide how the day would proceed, with space to just be. But no sooner had I secured my room (s) of my own, than I invited someone in to share it. Our love took over and we moved on to own multiple rooms together in a sorry house that whispered of many stories untold. Now I own several rooms, but none of them are mine; no part my husband doesn’t share (and clutter), no area my daughters don’t ransack. I don’t even close the toilet door anymore – that intimate moment of privacy too has been stripped away by an insecure toddler. And since giving up my full time desk-job to look after the family and pursue a freelance career, I no longer own an office where people would knock to enter and I could choose to welcome them, or not.


Now don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change one second of motherhood (well, ok there are about 30 seconds I might exchange) but here I am. 37. A mother and writer. And for the first time in my life I have no room to call my own. I write at the dinner table amid dollops of baby food and smidgens of egg yoke and between piles of ironing. I was deliriously happy recently when my husband grudgingly allowed me to store some old crockery in the shed so that I could have a whole half cupboard of the dresser to store my laptop and writing. A whole shelf! Who needs diamond rings when you can have a whole shelf, I ask you? When I surveyed a bunch of mum’s recently about their thoughts on motherhood, one of the strongest moans was lack of privacy and personal space. And I don’t think we even dream of anything grand. All I want is a little corner of the house that belongs to me; a place where all my piles of ‘stuff’, and notes, and ‘things’ can congregate together in harmony. I’d like to feel I belong, rather than have bits of me scattered around the house in every available recess like a hobo in my own home.


But for now I suppose I must create my own ‘room’, my thinking and writing place. My solitude must take place amid the hectic squealings of motherhood. My creativity must fight its way through the mundane acts of domesticity. I must claim my room where I can; in my head; in the car as I wait for the lights to change; in between the nappies and the boiled eggs and soldiers; in bed as the moon recedes and little voices have yet to break the silence of the morning. And maybe one day I will have a room again; one that’s just mine. With a door. A soft door that’s knock is mild and not intimidating. A gentle knock that I will gladly say ‘come in’ to. Because I can.

Apr 10

1 Comment

Alana: Introducing myself!

Thank you for the invite to join this wonderful group of writing mums. I feel like I’ve just walked into a room of old friends having just been on a holiday with a bunch of strangers. At last, people with my problems – and my ambitions! Thanks for the invite Miranda, and if it suits everyone, I’ll bring along a bottle of wine, put on my Abba CD and kick back with you girls for a while.


I’m a mum of two from Dublin, Ireland – one is 2 and a half and the other is 10 months… yes i know, I’ve told my husband he’s not allowed to even pass me on the stairs for at least another year…


I gave up my high-octane job after I had Daisy, and despite loving being her mum, i morphed from being the workaholic Iron Lady to the housework weary Ironing Lady. So I began to write. Ironically having kids has allowed me to fulfill my lifetime ambition of being a writer. I now write regularly for parenting magazines (although that makes me sound like a full-blown freelancer – the reality is I write when they sleep, and when I can’t sleep) and am attempting my first novel (note the optimistic use of ‘first’!).


Some days… most days.. I feel like a piece of my daughters’ playdo – uber elasticated for easy pulling in every direction, and maleable enough to morph into different shapes when the demand requires – mum, wife, cleaner, cook, writer, daughter, friend, mum, secretary, engineer, mum, daughter-in-law, mum, neighbour, houseworker, shopper, planner, mum, hugger, play friend, teacher, ……. me?


Every second of every day has a specific task dedicated to it – the nano-second my babes are down for their lunchtime nap (my greatest achievement was getting them to sleep at the same time!) I’m at my computer writing until the first squeak on the monitor pulls me back to the day job.


My novel takes a back seat so much of the time, it might as well be in the car behind. My mum and my husband tell me to slow down, and calm down, and sit down, and MOST IRRITATINGLY OF ALL tell me not to push myself with the book. I need to rest. Yes i do. But i can’t rest for needing to write another line. I have to get off chapter 5 for god’s sake – it’s been 4 months!


I have the same angel / devil on my shoulder arguments as you Miranda – should I rest and forget the burning (more like smoldering) passion in me, or do I plough ahead and write the damn thing? Every day when I’m beyond myself with exhaustion after another interrupted night (we’ve all been sick pretty much without break since the week before Christmas) and I look enthusiastically at the computer but gaze longingly at the sofa, I can hear Oscar Wilde sidle up to me and whisper his famous quip: “The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of one’s trousers to the seat of one’s chair.” Clearly he was a man. With no kids. I write standing up, on the loo, in the bath, in my head as I wait for the traffic lights to change and in between verses of the Wheels on the Bus.


Anyway, I’ve turned into one of those irritating people who turn up at a party and hog the floor. Just wanted to say I’d love to join your group, I understand, empathise, and share your struggle and hope we can all get a few words written in the next wee while. Every little helps….

Apr 2

Miranda: Writing between the cracks

I much enjoyed this piece at Literary Mama, written by Lily Dayton. She touches on many of the issues that we’ve discussed during the past few months. Here’s a brief excerpt from the opening:

I write between the cracks of my life, the narrow space I have left between potty training and ballet practice, laundry loads and dinner on the table by six. Because I am a stay-at-home mom, living on my husband’s post-doctoral stipend–which means we live month to month, riding on a wave of debt that always threatens to submerge us–I only have time to write when my children are sleeping or when we (rarely) have enough money to pay someone else for their care. So I write during naptime, after bedtime (eyes burning), occasionally while Savanna and Camille are outside making forts in the twisted cypress limbs (threat of distracted drivers and greasy-haired child molesters never far from my thoughts). But these cracks in the walls of my life, though hair-line, are long and deep. Within them, writing is the seam that holds everything together.

To read the article in its entirety, click here.

Mar 20

3 Comments

Christa: Confession time

I’m going to admit to something that I haven’t wanted to admit to myself for a long time: the reason for my creative funk, all my questioning and browbeating, is at heart a temper tantrum. Why? Because I didn’t get my way.

By now, I was “supposed to” have landed an agent. I really was convinced that my writing was good enough. Even though I knew it was certainly possible that it wouldn’t happen within six months, I didn’t really think it wouldn’t. I believed at least that I would get requests for fulls and that those would tide me over.

I did get those requests, but early on, and nothing since about Thanksgiving. While I’m aware there are other options in publishing (I’m looking at small presses), I’ve still found myself wondering: what’s really in store for my career? Is this really what’s meant for my life?

I hope not. Because the thought of not being a novelist really, really depresses me.

But here’s the other thing, the other part of this confession. What I was hoping for was to be a wunderkind. I’m turning 33 in a month, and I really just wanted to be “discovered” and published before I turned 40. I wanted this because no one has ever thought much of me (at least until I met my husband). I was “nothing special” for many years. Two teachers loved my writing, but my parents didn’t love it and my peers didn’t get it. I have always wanted to “prove” myself, even though none of those people will ever be satisfied.

An author gave me some advice a few years back that I’ve kept, and now that I’m in this position, her words mean a lot more to me than they did then: “There’s been a lot of discussions of youth/writing recently. But you know what? There’s absolutely no percentage to being a wunderkind because, eventually, they’re going to take the kind away and you’re going to have to be a wunder on your own. And, at the risk of sounding very, very vain, I’m fairly confident that there’s not a 30-something on the planet who can write a wiser book than I can. Better, more beautiful? Sure. But there are things we learn as life goes on that makes writing richer with each decade. So think about the life as part of the writing, and don’t beat yourself up.”

What elicited her advice? My fear, even then, that I wouldn’t get anything done because of my kids.

In many ways I’m in a better position now than I was then. I have a number of short story credits in good, reputable markets; I’m helping to edit a magazine. So I can’t say I’m still stuck in a rut, and that’s good. Meanwhile, like I wrote to Bethany, fiction is an intrinsic part of my sense of balance. For my own sake and that of my family, I need to continue to pursue it. Even if it’s only a few sentences a day. And that “wunderkind” thing? Well, maybe that’s my personal bar that needs to be lowered.

Feb 19

4 Comments

Christa: A mixed blessing

This week, Rain Dog is on school vacation at our house. School vacation, as for most families, is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he’s available, so I should be able to get more work accomplished. On the other, he has his own expectations for his time.

In the past we’ve clashed, but by now I think we’ve learned how to work around each other. Still, I get about as much accomplished as I do during a typical week! The only difference is, I get out and about a bit more, which is actually preferable for me.

As for how it’s going this week: I’m still a little behind on my novella, but that’s as much because of the time I lost with the power outage as with the change in routine. I also had a few freelance projects come in at the last minute, and they all have “urgent” markers on them. Much as I’d like to ignore them and take my own little “vacation” (in which I write nothing but fiction), that would be irresponsible–and since I’m considering expanding my freelance business, I really need to be more responsive to this kind of work.

Meanwhile, I found an early draft of the short story that spawned the novella, which makes me happy because it contains a lot of backstory that I didn’t feel right about deleting. Now I realize that I must have had a sense about this story that I didn’t fully understand until now, and I’m so happy I listened to it!

I’ve been promised a day in which I can sit in a coffee shop and work in peace, so hopefully I’ll be able to bring together the various threads I’ve been contemplating and really pull the trigger on this story–and get back on track.

Jan 25

4 Comments

Miranda: When does giving in mean giving up?

wave.jpgI had another book interview this morning, with a woman who was funny and candid. She works fulltime from home (doing a job she’s good at but loathes) with a 3-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a workday chopped up between taking her kids to and from preschool, feeding them lunch, and putting them down for an afternoon nap, with a bit of help from her mother-in-law around the edges. Oh, and the kids don’t sleep much at night–they go down around 8:00 p.m. (with one parent lying in bed with each child–at which point all four family members generally fall asleep), and, assuming the kids do actually sleep, they wake up at 5:30. How can this woman possibly find time for her creative pursuits–painting, sewing, and knitting among them–which increasingly keep her afloat in the face of a day job she hates?

As we were talking, we hit upon a complicated issue that has surfaced on this blog. I thought about it some more after our conversation, and then talked it through with my dear business partner over lunch.

Here’s where I’m getting stuck. On the one hand, if you don’t push yourself a little, and make creativity a priority rather than leaving it to the bottom of the list, it rarely happens. When you’re in the domestic trenches and in some capacity working for a paycheck, simply getting through the day takes so much effort and mindshare that creativity is not something that just “surfaces,” even though you might be thinking about it. Many of us are sharply aware of the speed at which our years are flying by, and that at some point we must pull our dreams down out of the treetops and fashion them into some kind of reality. Sure, there might not be any gaping holes in the schedule, glistening with creative promise, but there are a few slivers of opportunity in there somewhere. Others have made it happen, within similar circumstances. Why not us, too? Just roll up those sleeves and make it work. As women, if we don’t make our own needs a priority, it’s doubtful that anyone else will do it for us.

So we think, let’s add some structure, let’s add some tangible and achievable goals, let’s schedule some creative time, and let’s stick to it. Let’s add a little bit of pressure, both external and internal. (All of those things are good–and they are things that many creatively productive mothers do do.)

And then there’s the other hand. The friendly voice that says: hey, your kids are young. You have a lot going on. There are “only so many hours in the day.” Be nice to yourself–go with the flow, enjoy the scenery, don’t push too hard. Kids grow at lightning speed, and the quandary of making creativity happen while your kids are still in diapers doesn’t, in fact, last forever. (Though it often feels like it will last forever.) Sure, when your kids head off to school, there are other challenges, but they are different challenges. Your brain and your heart may actually get taxed at a higher rate–and you’ll invariably put a lot more mileage on your car–but parenting older children isn’t usually as bone-numbingly exhausting as parenting infants and toddlers. Slowly, as the years pass, the opportunity for creativity increases. And then, the kids are gone. (Unless, like some of us, you keep having more and more children, assuring a lifetime of offspring in residence.) Just love your children, whatever stage they’re at. Relax, enjoy your family, and live in the moment.

Figuring out where those two hands can meet, and share a high five, is the challenge. For each mother, finding the right blend will be different. For those of us who struggle with this seeming dichotomy, how do we make it work? I know my own fear: letting go, giving in to the domestic tidal wave, means that I get sucked under the breakers and spit out on the beach (if I’m lucky). I know, because it has happened many times. I’ve been a mother for nearly 18 years, and I know that for me, “going with the flow” means being dragged offshore by a voracious riptide. It’s too easy to be fully distracted by the life I’ve established. If I don’t swim hard toward my goals, the creative self will drown. Telling myself to take it easy and not to expect too much feels like a cop out–and tastes like the first gulp of sea foam. I panic.

How then to move closer to the place where I allow myself room to enjoy my “domestic bliss,” while being flexible enough to bend with the challenges–without feeling like I’m just fooling myself? Acknowledge my overflowing days, without giving in? Accept that every now and then, I have to set my creative goals aside–just for a while, not forever–not that I’m simply procrastinating? It may simply be my type-A personality, but giving an inch here feels like giving more than the proverbial mile. I’m not sure how to bend without breaking. The result, when I can’t do what I want to do creatively, is general crankiness, anxiety, and a deep fear that I’ll never get back to the beach.

Fishing line, anyone?

Jan 16

6 Comments

Miranda: Help! Something awful is happening

helpneeded.jpgOK, so I’m gaining momentum. A lot of momentum. My 150 pages of material are really turning into something viable. The first few chapters are readable drafts. I’m networking like mad, developing my third wave of interviewees, with success. I’m reading books that are feeding my writing. I’m revising a short story I wrote last year to submit in the Iowa contest. Even this blog is gaining traction–yesterday was our best traffic day yet with 62 page views. (Not bad for a blog that’s just over two weeks old.)

But here’s the thing. The more involved I am in my creative life, and the more sure-footed my efforts become, the more resentful I am of my day job. (I mentioned in a comment to Lisa’s post below that I’m prone to resentment, an unattractive trait.) I know, boo hoo–I have to work, like most everyone else–and I’m one of the lucky ones; I run my own business, don’t work full-time, and I set my own hours working mainly from home. Plus, my work is tangentially related to my creative life, and I make good money at what I do. I really have nothing to complain about. Most importantly, not working is not an option, so I need to make the best of it.

But there it is, every day I wake up and start getting grumpy about the fact that I have to work, doing things that are useful and appreciated by my clients, but aren’t my life’s calling. I dread working. True, at the moment I’m dealing with some unusually unrewarding client work, which is pretty stressful. But obsessing about not wanting to work, and focusing on the current unpleasantness, is tainting the creative time that I do have. My resentment is putting me in a funk, when instead I should be grateful for my flexible work situation, focused on my progress, and excited about where things are headed. Not sure how to snap out of it. I don’t have much time left if I’m going to finish this book before May, and I can’t fritter away my energy in negativity like this. Plus, I’m likely to start resenting my family next. (Especially since they’re all sick at the moment.)

Has anyone else dealt with this before? Maybe someone should just smack me and tell me to get a grip and toss the tiara. Suggestions heartily appreciated.

Jan 6

6 Comments

Christa: The week behind, the week ahead

I shouldn’t have worried so much last week. The loose schedule Miranda suggested – kids by day, work at night – worked very well to boost my productivity. What had been happening was that I would get so anxious about all the stuff I had to get done that I would try to do it during the day. Then the kids would need me and I would be short with them. At night, still anxious, I would goof off. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Deciding that daytime would be for the kids, while night would be for work, was surprisingly effective. I still work a little during the day – I’m pathologically introverted, and I just can’t be “on” every moment, so I need little breaks to come on the computer – but I now decide what work I need to accomplish in the evening, and then I do it. I actually completed things pretty much on time!

The one thing I found tricky was that half-hour of fiction time in the evenings. Depending on how the day has gone with the kids, they might settle in nicely with Daddy… or not. One evening when I had more like 45 minutes, I chose to do the dishes with that time. I can’t figure out why, as it was a conscious choice between that and writing. I think part of it was that I wanted to drown the noise out for a little while, plus I didn’t feel like facing dishes the next morning. But really what I should have done was go upstairs and hide in my bedroom.

Still – I can’t help feeling guilty about that. Rain Dog has had a long day at work too, and when he’s not up for wrangling both kids by himself, I feel like I should be helping… even when I’m drained and out of kid ideas, too.

This week will see me continue to tweak that particular part of the daily routine. I got some great time on Saturday to finish one chapter in the new novel and start another. Those characters are coming together and I really want to spend more time with them. Additionally, I have a couple of short stories I want to finish and start submitting. We’ll see how that all goes.

As for freelance work, I have to finish page proofs for Shroud (they’re done; I just have to type them in). I need to get cracking on an article I’m writing that’s due February 1, along with an editing job and another project due the same day (all for the same magazine). So it will be a busy week, but I’m confident now that I can accomplish plenty.

Jan 2

7 Comments

Christa: Goals, with anxiety to taste

I have a lot going on as the new year begins. I recently agreed to sign on as assistant editor of a brand-new horror magazine. I’ll be blogging at least twice a week for a startup regional parenting site… and perhaps contributing articles to its companion print magazine. I have existing clients with ongoing work. I have a personal blog that I try to write for at least once a week.

All this would probably be manageable if I didn’t also have a fledgling fiction career. At any given moment, I cannot figure out whether to work on my next novel, any one of half a dozen short stories (one of which is shaping up to be a long ‘un, maybe even a novella).

And then there are the boys.

I complained to my husband that I haven’t done any real writing since the baby started to walk. And now I have all this stuff going on. How to manage it all?

I’m open to suggestion. In the past, I’ve done freelance work by day and fiction by night, but that was when I had regular childcare and no baby. (Even at that, I could see childcare a.k.a. Grandma overwhelmed by both boys at once!) I’m thinking a different, more structured schedule is in order.

Hamlet has preschool three mornings a week. This should be my alone time with Puck, but without both boys competing for attention… it’s so tempting to work at least part of the time, perhaps a blog entry. Late afternoons, when the kids are bored and tired and need downtime, may work: I could pop in a video. But what of the never-easy-to-predict high-maintenance days, when both boys demand almost constant interaction? That I’ll just have to play by ear, like always.

And where does that leave fiction? Well, there’s the tricky part. Ideally I would devote 30 minutes per day to fiction, plus several hours on Saturday morning. This is easy when I’m in a groove, in the middle of a scene or story where I know what’s going to happen next. It’s not so easy, though, when I’m stalled–with more questions and doubts than ideas, and too many distractions to focus in such a short span of time. Not to mention competing freelance work.

So that one, again, I’ll have to play by ear. Most of all, I hope for balance. I’m never happy when I’m doing too much of either writing or mothering, but my sons are extroverts – they need interaction, and the “companionable silences” I treasure, working on something while they play nearby, may not be enough for them.

So, my challenge for the week: a schedule of some kind. Maybe even a week-to-week one. As for work, I need to complete one article edit and page proofs for the new magazine going out, and I need to catch up with some projects I’m managing for a client. Over the longer term (this month), I have another article edit and two articles to write. I’ll be busy… will I manage? Stay tuned!

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