My daughter is in her crib (and hopefully cruising towards a nap), and my son is playing happily close by. The last month has been about them, and them, and more them; also about learning things about myself (such as how mega-stressful-things hanging over me can sabotage my ability to stay in the present. DUH, Arwen). As well as adjusting (or not) to cold Chicago weather (perhaps calling it that is an understatement). I interviewed for an adjunct gig. I lost some weight. I got a bit closer to having an apartment that doesn't have pockets of leftover moving un-done-ness.
LYFE. (Heh.)
I did get some writing done but not as much as I hoped/planned/assumed/dreamed of. I have two chapters done. And if a novel is, say, 100,000 words, then I have 10% done. NOTHING TO SNIFF AT. I got immaturely crabby one week about the whole thing, and refused to even look at it. Then I got over it. Then my husband went to a conference. I thought I would get some real writing done. HA. I wrote maybe 1500 words the whole week. Children are consuming. (Creation is hard, but I do recommend it. :)
The thing I have to remember is that it's not about how far away I am from the "finish line" but how much I want to re-enter the world I've created. And I do. Sure, there is uncertainty about what I'm doing/how it's going, and absolutely a real amount of crappy writing (how much so, is another big fat unknown, and I don't care - here's to a base to build better prose on). But there are some prime moments where I write something that I can even let myself enjoy (probably not the good stuff, heh), and some surprises (that I might be able to get to work, later), and just the strange satisfaction of losing myself in something both familiar and unfamiliar to me. Creation is hard, but I do recommend it!
Oh, and I have been using a phrase, from the amazing artist Lisa Congdon, to get me going:
Begin Anyhow.
Wakeful children aside, sometimes that's the only thing keeping me from doing it at all. :)
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