T: Mom, how many times have you sent short stories out to magazines?
Me: Hmm. Maybe about fifty?
T: And how many times did they say yes?
Me: Seven.
T: Uh...Mom? I think you're losing.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Please God, Don't Make Me Get Up Early...
My latest resolution is to write five pages a day of my new novel. Five pages. That’s, like, nothing. It doesn’t even have to be good. It just has to be down on paper. I can worry about the good later.
Because I use most of the time the kids are at school or their dad's (two nights a week) to work on contract editing and writing projects, there isn't a lot of extra time to write my own stuff.
Here's the problem: I do not want to be one of those mothers who writes at five in the morning before her kids wake up. If I had to choose between sleeping in and the new novel, sleep would put up a damn good fight. What I want is to be able to write at night after they go to bed.
But it might be time to face the facts.
My kids are terrible at going to bed. I'm sure it's my fault. As you will see, I still haven’t figured out how to be consistently, effectively strict. Instead, I am just intermittently bitchy, depending on how much patience I have at any given time.
Around eight o’clock at night I naively start thinking “Okay, the kids will be asleep in half an hour. I might even write ten pages tonight!”
But here’s how it usually goes down:
8:15
I tell them it’s time for bed
They tell me they’re hungry
I feed them toast while lecturing them about how they should have told me earlier.
8:30
I tell them to brush their teeth
My daughter (let's call her T) remembers that she didn’t do her math homework
Another lecture followed by half-hearted help from me, who is now back down to five pages.
9:15
They actually go to bed but fight for ten minutes over which story I should read.
9:30
I tuck them in, kiss them goodnight and you would THINK that would be the end of it...
9:35
I sit down at the computer and haven't even opened the file when T yells that she has dropped her blanket from the top of her loft bed. I get it for her and tell her, admittedly with some irritation, that this is the last time I will be going in their room (hah!), which prompts her to say tearfully, "It's the only time I asked you to come in. God, Mom!" She's almost eleven. It's a preteen thing.
9:45
I sit down and am about to read over the last thing I wrote when the other child (let's call him J) yells that he' s scared. There is weary (on my part) discussion about which light should be left on, the hallway or the bathroom. The kids, of course, disagree. When I side with J it sparks outrage from my daughter, who clearly believes that her brother has been sent here to destroy her.
10:00
T is asleep, but J keeps calling me back despite threats that I will shut the bedroom door if he doesn't stop. I don't follow through on the threat because his yelling would wake up T.
10:30
J finally falls asleep.
By now I am too tired and frustrated. Five pages are impossible. Disciplined Me tries to make a deal with Tired Me. Three pages? Two? A paragraph?
The answer, Tired Me says sternly, is no.
So should I give up on the night writing? Should I at least try getting up early? Wait! Don't answer that.
Maybe I'll give it one more shot.
Because I use most of the time the kids are at school or their dad's (two nights a week) to work on contract editing and writing projects, there isn't a lot of extra time to write my own stuff.
Here's the problem: I do not want to be one of those mothers who writes at five in the morning before her kids wake up. If I had to choose between sleeping in and the new novel, sleep would put up a damn good fight. What I want is to be able to write at night after they go to bed.
But it might be time to face the facts.
My kids are terrible at going to bed. I'm sure it's my fault. As you will see, I still haven’t figured out how to be consistently, effectively strict. Instead, I am just intermittently bitchy, depending on how much patience I have at any given time.
Around eight o’clock at night I naively start thinking “Okay, the kids will be asleep in half an hour. I might even write ten pages tonight!”
But here’s how it usually goes down:
8:15
I tell them it’s time for bed
They tell me they’re hungry
I feed them toast while lecturing them about how they should have told me earlier.
8:30
I tell them to brush their teeth
My daughter (let's call her T) remembers that she didn’t do her math homework
Another lecture followed by half-hearted help from me, who is now back down to five pages.
9:15
They actually go to bed but fight for ten minutes over which story I should read.
9:30
I tuck them in, kiss them goodnight and you would THINK that would be the end of it...
9:35
I sit down at the computer and haven't even opened the file when T yells that she has dropped her blanket from the top of her loft bed. I get it for her and tell her, admittedly with some irritation, that this is the last time I will be going in their room (hah!), which prompts her to say tearfully, "It's the only time I asked you to come in. God, Mom!" She's almost eleven. It's a preteen thing.
9:45
I sit down and am about to read over the last thing I wrote when the other child (let's call him J) yells that he' s scared. There is weary (on my part) discussion about which light should be left on, the hallway or the bathroom. The kids, of course, disagree. When I side with J it sparks outrage from my daughter, who clearly believes that her brother has been sent here to destroy her.
10:00
T is asleep, but J keeps calling me back despite threats that I will shut the bedroom door if he doesn't stop. I don't follow through on the threat because his yelling would wake up T.
10:30
J finally falls asleep.
By now I am too tired and frustrated. Five pages are impossible. Disciplined Me tries to make a deal with Tired Me. Three pages? Two? A paragraph?
The answer, Tired Me says sternly, is no.
So should I give up on the night writing? Should I at least try getting up early? Wait! Don't answer that.
Maybe I'll give it one more shot.
A Room of One's Own? Not Likely.
I would like to address a couple of common misconceptions about the writing life:
1. You need a lot of spare time to write
Oh man. When I think of all the luxurious time I had in my twenties that I didn't spend writing, I want to go back and shake my little navel-gazing, cafe-dwelling self.
I didn't start writing seriously until ten years ago when I was at home full-time with a six-month-old baby, and I didn't start writing my novel until I had a three-year-old and an infant and hadn't had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep in years. I had never been more exhausted or had less spare time in my life. But I still wrote.
2. A writer needs a room of her own
Um, no.
I can't even remember the last time I had a room of my own. Probably my bachelor's apartment in Vancouver when I was 24. In the seven different homes I have lived in since my kids were born, my desk has almost always been in my bedroom. And as my ex-husband and I were victims of the attachment parenting philosophy, until recently my kids were usually sleeping in there with us.
I currently live in a one-bedroom cottage. I write from the corner of my living room, which is also where my bed is. The kids get the bedroom because they are much louder. It only makes sense that they have a door that closes. The couch is four feet away from my desk and there are usually children jumping on it or practicing what they like to call their "Olympic rolls," (running at the couch and hurling themselves over it and onto the floor) which I am often called upon to judge.
See, these dangerous myths just make it easier for procrastinating writers to put off getting down to work. We all have our distractions. But if you want to write, you'll find the time.
And whether you have a sun-drenched villa all to yourself or stolen moments in the corner of a living room while the Olympic rollers are taking a break, you can find the space.
1. You need a lot of spare time to write
Oh man. When I think of all the luxurious time I had in my twenties that I didn't spend writing, I want to go back and shake my little navel-gazing, cafe-dwelling self.
I didn't start writing seriously until ten years ago when I was at home full-time with a six-month-old baby, and I didn't start writing my novel until I had a three-year-old and an infant and hadn't had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep in years. I had never been more exhausted or had less spare time in my life. But I still wrote.
2. A writer needs a room of her own
Um, no.
I can't even remember the last time I had a room of my own. Probably my bachelor's apartment in Vancouver when I was 24. In the seven different homes I have lived in since my kids were born, my desk has almost always been in my bedroom. And as my ex-husband and I were victims of the attachment parenting philosophy, until recently my kids were usually sleeping in there with us.
I currently live in a one-bedroom cottage. I write from the corner of my living room, which is also where my bed is. The kids get the bedroom because they are much louder. It only makes sense that they have a door that closes. The couch is four feet away from my desk and there are usually children jumping on it or practicing what they like to call their "Olympic rolls," (running at the couch and hurling themselves over it and onto the floor) which I am often called upon to judge.
See, these dangerous myths just make it easier for procrastinating writers to put off getting down to work. We all have our distractions. But if you want to write, you'll find the time.
And whether you have a sun-drenched villa all to yourself or stolen moments in the corner of a living room while the Olympic rollers are taking a break, you can find the space.
Distracted Mama in a Nutshell
Writers are notoriously distracted. Let's get that out in the open right away.
It is not at all unusual for me to be driving five shrieking second-graders to the pool while making up imaginary conversations in my head, or folding laundry while listening to the same '70s rock song over and over because it somehow nails the essence of a tricky scene. And while on the surface it looks like I'm innocently making pancakes and pouring orange juice, I'm quite possibly plotting the demise of a silly character who wandered out on the lake before the ice was frozen through.
I know I'm never going to be the perfect homemaker. My kids are so used to the smoke detector going off while I'm cooking that they just cover their ears and yell, "Mom's making dinner!" It's unlikely you will see many Sunday brunch souffle recipes or pillowcase embroidery techniques posted here.
But is there room for improvement? Absolutely.
What I'm interested in exploring is this: Can a fine balance be achieved between parenting and writing? Is it possible to divide your attention fairly, or will one end up like the favoured sibling and the other like a neglected houseplant? (More on dead plants later)
I think it can be done. Let's find out.
It is not at all unusual for me to be driving five shrieking second-graders to the pool while making up imaginary conversations in my head, or folding laundry while listening to the same '70s rock song over and over because it somehow nails the essence of a tricky scene. And while on the surface it looks like I'm innocently making pancakes and pouring orange juice, I'm quite possibly plotting the demise of a silly character who wandered out on the lake before the ice was frozen through.
I know I'm never going to be the perfect homemaker. My kids are so used to the smoke detector going off while I'm cooking that they just cover their ears and yell, "Mom's making dinner!" It's unlikely you will see many Sunday brunch souffle recipes or pillowcase embroidery techniques posted here.
But is there room for improvement? Absolutely.
What I'm interested in exploring is this: Can a fine balance be achieved between parenting and writing? Is it possible to divide your attention fairly, or will one end up like the favoured sibling and the other like a neglected houseplant? (More on dead plants later)
I think it can be done. Let's find out.
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