Some days, it seems like I spend more time waiting to write than I actually do writing. I feel that tell-tale itchy feeling inside my skull that indicates I am ready to write (I think), even if I don't know exactly what I will write. But there was the kid I promised a round of Heroscape, and there were the kids who needed lunch, and there is the kid watching No Reservations across the room. Soon there will be the kids I promised a trip to Dairy Queen this afternoon, and the dog who expects a walk right about now, and the laundry and supper and other assorted everyday things that constitute my "real" job, the actual reason I stay home during the day instead of trekking to an office somewhere for a paycheck.
Don't get me wrong. I love this job. In spite of the 24/7, every week of the year hours and the lack of tangible rewards. And I am happy and pleased to have my boys home with me, and I enjoy the Heroscape and the Rock Band and the Uno Attack and the trips to DQ. (I mean, come on--who would object to DQ?)
Except there's this itching in my head, and my computer is right here, and the PW document is open on that tab, right over there. Only I know that if I open that tab and start trying to write right now, there will be inevitable interruptions. My best hope is to wait another few minutes, when they settle in for their allotted video gaming time and a lack of interruptions will be almost guaranteed. Because I love my family, and the only thing that makes me crankier than not being able to write when I want to is being interrupted in midthought. I get snappy. I don't like this about me, but there it is.
So, yeah. Waiting to write. Remembering why I'm really home. Taking a deep breath and trying to enjoy the moment, even if it's not the one I think I want right now, because it won't come again, and I might regret missing out on it later.
This week in books 6/23/17
9 hours ago