My friend Yojo recently wrote this:
I’ve got four documents open in Scrivener. Each is less than a month old, and not one of them is more than 700 words long. One is just an outline, and if you look closely you’ll find it’s actually a recipe for baba ganoush with some plot-related notes surrounding it.
I don’t actually know what Scrivener is, but I have a teensy bit of experience with that scattered, non-finished sort of writing. JUST A TEENSY BIT. And I don’t even have a baba ganoush recipe.
Last week I rode the bus to and from work at the yarn shop. It’s about a 15-20 minute ride, and I brought a book. You guys, I read a book. A whole book. I told Will this morning that going to work felt like vacation.
Look, I love being a mom. I really, really love it. But I am a little burned out.
Last summer, in a burst of pregnancy-induced creativity, I wrote about 7,000 words of a middle grade novel. It isn’t very good–in fact, it stinks–but if I sat down and finished it I could maybe try to fix it.
Since Grace’s birth, I’ve written scenes for two short stories, trying to find the necessary voice.
That is ALL the creative outlet I’ve found time for. I don’t read, I don’t write. I update my blog a couple times a week, if that, and I write my column (which I get paid for), and that’s it.
I swear I’m not trying to do everything. I’ll try that when the kids are bigger. I’ve even managed, thanks in part to my amazing sister’s help with the children, to enjoy every minute (or, you know, a lot of them) of Grace’s infancy. And now, as she gains some independence, I find myself longing for a little of my own. For a break from the hours I’ve spent every day lately trying to help her get to sleep (growth spurts SUCK). To read another book.
Maybe I just need somewhere to take the bus a few times a week.