When I think of the writing profession, I often think of authors like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I imagine that their days are spent at an old, cherry desk in a dusty study, surrounded by piles of unbound manuscripts, notes, and reference books. Their desk is probably set in front of a window, through which they can see a pastoral setting of trees and fields. They probably reference this setting when they are stuck on a difficult sentence or encounter an unexpected plothole. When they aren't writing, they are probably traveling the world on book tours or consulting with movie directors regarding upcoming book-to-film adaptations.
This has always been my perception of authors, and it might be similar to your preconceived notions as well. For famous authors, perhaps this is something akin to the truth. For writers like me, though, this idealistic vision of the profession is, well, quite idealistic.
I have two children in diapers and an old house on a half-acre of land to care for. My days are filled with preparing and cleaning up after meals, negotiating with tantrums and nap schedules, and watching messes appear as quickly (or quicker) than I can clean them. In the evenings, you will often find me or my husband scouring Youtube to find DIY tutorials to help fix our latest broken appliance or piece of lawn equipment. This is my 'day job,' and it's a thirty-hour-a-day, eight-days-a-week gig. I truly love and enjoy being home with my children, and I consider it a tremendous privilege to care for them every day. However, the urgent and necessary tasks of daily life leave little room for my own 'grown-up' interests and pursuits. I often have to choose between doing laundry or reading a book; washing dishes or doing a workout; cleaning a room or taking a shower; promoting my current book or writing the next story.
Eventually, my kids will be a little older, a little less physically demanding, and slightly less likely to seriously injure each other if I step away for a few minutes (maybe). But right now, they are relatively helpless, so my writing occurs in snatches of time wherever I can spare it. Today I wrote at the library, in between glances at my children across the play area. Some days, writing occurs on the couch or in bed, while I wait for my husband to finish a late-night work project in his home office. Most days, however, writing simply doesn't happen at all. And in this season of life, that statistic is okay with me.
Writing, for me, is a labor of love; however, there are many things in this life that I love more than writing. As long as those things, those people, require the majority of my effort and time, then that is where my priority needs to be. While I wish I had more time to write, the precious nature of my opportunities to do so makes the actual moments of writing all the sweeter. The process of creating rhymes, adjusting meter, and developing stories is a fulfilling and unparalleled puzzle for me that taps into both the logical and creative parts of my brain. Moreover, because I am currently focusing on children's stories instead of novels, a single line of progress is a significant achievement. So, in this season of life, where realistic progress consists of a few tweaks to a stanza, I enjoy the rare opportunities to focus on my work. Yet my greatest joy and primary focus is on my children, who are the reason I rekindled my passion for authorship in the first place
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