I’ve been writing a lot. Not blogging much, obviously, but the long kind of writing. The kind you’re not supposed to call what it’s going to be until it is what it will become.
There’s only so much creative energy, and time (oh, time) to go around.
At any rate, it feels slow-going, because it’s a piecemeal process. Most it goes like this: I set my alarm for 5. Sometimes I’m already awake nursing the baby. Other times she wakes up to my alarm or when I try to get up, and then I have to stay in bed and nurse her. Her sleep has become more touch-and-go as she teeths or when she went to bed earlier, like she has been.
I sneak into the kitchen, make coffee as quickly as possible, leaving the bag of beans open and the grinder plugged in, because every second is a second that I can be writing before the baby is awake.
Then I sit on the couch and write, pausing to tiptoe into the bedroom when she stirs, trying to keep her down.
Mornings like today, she just won’t quit, and I let her lay on my lap to nurse while I type with one hand. This keeps her drowsy, and I made remarkable progress despite my contorted back and neck. A small price to pay. Of course, by the time I need to start getting ready for work, she’s back down for real, dead asleep, and I lay her in the Rock N’ Play.
With any momentum of train of thought, I keep writing in the shower, mentally noting outline ideas, robust sentences, and race to the computer naked to type them out.
Other mornings, of course, she stays out like a light and I can’t squeeze a single inspired word from my keyboard.
Weekends have been mostly canning peach-bourbon preserves, roasting a goose, dressing rabbits and chickens and starting rose hip wine (that’s next). And this weekend will be fruitless in the writing department because it’s my daughters first birthday, which means a trip to Nunu’s and a big party. My husband and I will spend all day Saturday preparing carnitas and enchiladas and salsas and refried beans. Sunday will be a riot, full of friends and family and frosting-faced photo-ops. It will be awesome.
But then Monday comes and no matter how much food and fun memories I have to look back on, I tend to have a bit of anxiety that I’m somehow behind. When my only writing has been the shower, not penned out afterward, lost down the drain.