Balance

The above illustration is a good example of why a excellent illustrator is imperative. Add two more heads to the bubble-- hubby's and another babe's--and the ugly drawing is me.

Writing is a tough gig. It stretches my brain outside the bounds of child-rearing, out into the twinkly, evanescent space of thought and self and time alone. Don't get me wrong, throughout the last ten years of birthing and raising children I have maintained thinking time, but it's usually been through reading, not pulling self-formed sentences out of my own brain. And I have tried to ensure so-called me time, but let's be honest here, it was usually spent at Target or the gym. If I needed to get out, I ran to the red bull's eye as fast as my mini-van tires could carry me.

This past year I've had a, shall we say holier?, reason to have time to myself: to write and create. My husband's praising the credit card bills, as I no longer feel a pull to shop or browse. The clincher is I don't get paid, and so in turn feel guilt about the time away from my family. It's not too much-- only a few hours per week--but I still feel the guilt and the strain when I'm gone. I've always been available to my family at any given moment, and now I am requiring something for myself. It's a shock to everyone, myself included. Before, Target sucked money out of my wallet faster than a Dyson sucks dirt, and the gym is still there...I'll go again tomorrow. Using my brain, on the other hand, has been satisfying for me, even if I require multiple editing sessions to make my writing readable.

And so once again I long for balance. I have let some things slide over the past year--certain rooms in my house are in complete disarray, my cooking as been less involved, my sleep has been interrupted by scenes and dialogue and children's books ideas. But in spite of the chaos, I'm happier, more satisfied. I can't say the same for everyone in the family, so adjusting, tweaking, and meeting needs differently are all in order. Limits need to be placed on myself--my time on the laptop, keeping myself in the current conversation instead of out in la-la land, composing a string of dialogue in my head. I also need to get the entire family on a real, bona fide schedule.

It comes down to this: as many times as I've considered quitting, when thoughts creep in like, "Maybe this isn't the time and season to write," or "I should give more to my family," I realize I'd be doing myself AND my family a disservice if I quit. My kids will be empowered knowing I have the gumption to finish something, that writing and creating is important to their mom and that I am not a diaper-changing, dish-doing permanent fixture in the house. I have a brain and I like to use it, and that's a good thing, especially if I can balance it out. A very good thing, indeed.

Writing Insecurities

I started this journey on a whim. Write a book! I thought. No biggie. Give me a few months. If it's bad, I'll burn it. So I wrote. And wrote. And it was fun and silly and thoughtless. I just slapped words on a screen, helter skelter, without considering grammar or syntax, or any of those Englishy things. Character development? Bah!

Fifty pages later I thought, Huh, I 'm kinda doing it. Strange. What I'd written was funny, but overall rather terrible.

At 120 pages I thought, This is darn long, maybe I should consider where it's going. So I edited, re-edited, and threw down new scenes--out of order--as they came into my head. It got very confusing, utterly frustrating and overwhelming.

I quit.

Two weeks later I pulled up my "manuscript" and with an air of doom and gloom, began reading. I was surprised how much I liked it, so dug in again, brutally slashing favorite parts that didn't lend credence to the story. I considered my characters: who they were, what they felt and why. And I fell in love again. With them. It was weird, and painfully addicting. I liked these people. I couldn't leave Casey hanging. I had to finish her story.

Three hundred and fifty pages into it, I love them even more, and in my free time (never) I read and research about writing. Discouragement still smacks me around sometimes, but I'm slowly fighting back, getting in a jab or two between her pummellings.

I won't quit, and this is why: I have to know what happens between Casey and Ezra...and I have to keep running until I cross the finish line, no matter how tired and cranky and cantankerous I get.

Things I wish I was, but am not...

Always wished I was one of these, too.

A week at Lake Powell with four children in tow left me with several ponderous thoughts, one being Man, I annoy myself. Am I the only one with this problem? With this deep thought in mind, I compiled a list late one night of all the things I wish I was, but unfortunately am not...

1. Easy Going. I'm always spazzing out about something, whether it be the possibility of children drowning at the Lake or crossing the street safely, or that mean-looking dog whose head brushes the top of his fence. You know, the one I have to pass when I take a walk in my neighborhood and it snarls at me, sizing me up for a little backyard doggie barbeque. My sister just younger than I manages to keep her cool in almost every situation. I think I inherited her portion of the freak-out genes.
2. More Sensitive. I hate hurting people's feelings, but somehow I manage to regularly, usually through the above stated freak-out genes. Maybe I should try passing it off as inherent to my make-up. I have a medical condition. You get on my nerves and they freak out.
3. Decisive. Oh, I can decide alright, and even stick to it like nobody's business. My problem is I second guess myself to kingdom come. At least, I think I do...
4. In Shape. What? You mean it takes more than putting on workout clothes to get rid of flab?
5. Daring. Deep water, dark spaces, empty streets, wildlife, stingrays swimming between my legs and trying to suck my flesh...all send me crying for mama (or in the last instance, using hubs as a todem pole and about pulling his shorts off in the process). I am the world's biggest wimp.
6. Self Disciplined. I love sleep, I truly do. Every time I lay my head on a pillow I think, I really should do this more often.
7. Patient. I've managed to lose half of my hearing with each child. I figure I am a good negative one in the hearing department. It has increased my patience, but somehow I still hear those high-pitched sounds that make dogs howl, and I howl along with the best of them.
8. Whimsical. Oh, how I long to be less practical. The Whimsy Fairy passed right over me when she was sprinkling her magic dust. I got not a speck.
9. Organized. My garage and craft room will be navigitable. Some day. At least before I die.

A list of all I'm not.

Hmm. That's gonna get me through the day.

My friend once posted on her blog things she liked about herself and I found it disconcerting, although I don't quite know why. I can be blind to the great things about myself because the annoying things are so glaringly obvious. So it's off to work I go...

By the end of my life I will be the most laid back, kind yet firm-minded, well-rested, meditating-in-a-Zen-garden skydiver you've ever known. It won't even be funny how low my bloodpressure will be.* Ahh...I'm relaxing already.

*Probably because I'll be dead.