Time

Time

Time has been the thing I struggle with the most. I dare to bet it is that way for most writers. We all fit our writing time between very complicated lives. I never expected or wanted to write ‘full time,’ but I have longed for a few quiet hours a day with no distractions.

No, I am not delusional…You know, that statement most likely doesn’t make sense when you factor in that I am talking about a writer. Writers work in delusion, right? Anyway, I digress.

I really thought, when I began my writing, a million years ago, that I could find those few quiet hours. After all, I nurtured, nursed and guided three boys to school age and I was blessed with being a stay-at-home mom. It was the perfect situation. While the boys were at school, my husband working on thirty or more hours, off twelve, I could spend mornings writing, afternoons keeping house, fixing meals, running the boys to their extracurricular activities.

Here it is, twenty some odd years later, and the best I can say is it did not go according to plan. I know, I know. I was to get out the message that I worked in the mornings and was not to be disturbed. I got the message out. I know, I know. I was not to answer the phone, the door, the cell. Done, at least most days. I was to put butt in chair. (If you look at my south end, you know I did that.) Every book, every article on writing tells you this. Heck, I can see that you must do these things. I am a firm believer in ‘don’t wish for it, work for it.

What no one tells you is how to get up, get those kids off to school, sit your butt in the chair when the person supporting the family and your writing has an on call job and the phone rings at two in the morning. How to balance all those little sticky problems that come up with family, neighbors, finances, difficult delivery companies or repair companies who no longer seem to accommodate the customer. No one tells you just how little your family, friends, neighbors take you that seriously. After all, you are home all day.

(Frankly, I really think the whole concept of writing, whether fiction or not, is hard for ‘civilians’ to get. It is hard to see the difference between sitting down to write and sitting down to ‘write.’)

I can’t even begin to say how angry I was for many of those first few years. At my family for not respecting my space, my writing, my wishes. (Guilt involved.) At someone reading my work that wasn’t ready for ‘other eyes.’ At the computer…acquiring one, learning to work it, relearning new technology, crashes, lost work. I was making myself crazy. I had so much to learn with the writing, the computer, the way publishing worked.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I told my husband that it would be so much easier to just give up.

And…unfortunately, time has only gotten more complicated. I have more blessings, more titles: Wife, Mom, daughter, sister, grandma, caregiver for a breast cancer survivor and 90-something parent…chief cook and bottle washer. The list does go on, but you get the idea. 

And now, worse…It seems writers have more shoulds. They should Facebook, printerest, twitter, blog, goodreads, keep up with their favorite writers, blogs, network, promote and keep up with all the new ways of being published.

I don’t know how the writers do it. I really, truly don’t. And have a life.

At one time, I let this get me down. I’m realistic; I know I can’t do it all. I really can’t. And more, I don’t want to. When it’s all said and done, when I peel back everything but what I want to do, it’s simple. I just want to write. And have my sweet, little life. Maybe, that will be, is my downfall, too.

Yes, I want to be published, but some of this other stuff writers should do just seems like lint on velvet. White noise, busy work. I hate busy work.

I want what I want. And when I really look at the other side of it, because writers love to read, I want my writers, writing.

It’s true. It’s wonderful that I can contact the writer of my latest read, tell him how much I loved his book, read his blog, find out what’s happening with him any minute on twitter.

I’ll bet a writer loves to hear what a reader thinks of their book. I even feel compelled by a good read to send a writer that message, but new world of promotion has its price. The price is time

Clear back, all those twenty-something years ago, I made choices about my writing vs. my life. Maybe, those choices are the very reason I’ve not published a novel yet. I would hope not because my life always comes first. No, I think I needed those years to learn how to write, how to live. I wouldn’t change the life I’ve had or the time I’ve spent with loved ones (they are temporary, you know), but time just keeps stacking up behind me. Some of my choices now, are no choice at all. I am in the care giving for the long haul and for that to end means losing my parent, so that is what it is. I’m getting older, so life to, has a little more say on my time, too. I have to make more painful choices.

I’m going to be stingy with my time. I’ll spend most of my writing time, writing. Blogging and Facebook sparsely. It’s what I want my favorite writers to do, too. That’s what I want to do. That’s why I began that journey, all those years ago.