Dedicating your life to writing when you have a full time job and still have a kid at home is difficult. Writing takes a fair amount of planning and sacrifice.
The past two weekends have seen my house overrun with grandbabies. Of course, that is no excuse to slack off writing.
Because that’s what we writers do, we write.
I’m sitting in my cool dark cave of a bedroom, early on a Sunday. The grandkids-in-residence this weekend, left with their parents to visit the aquarium.
Since I am a writer and I have my shit together, I used this time wisely.
This morning, I accepted three awards. The most exciting was the Pulitzer I got for the first ever Pulitzer prize awarded in a personal blog category. The other two weren’t as exciting, but still, it’s an honor to just be considered for an award.
I completed the screenplay I’ve been working on with Quentin. He is so hard to get off the phone. Once he starts talking, he never shuts up. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed that Samuel is available when the movie is made.
After the children are sleeping tonight, I will edit my epic historical saga about Aqua Net.
The fact that I’ve written this many words this weekend amazes me. My lovely stepdaughter was very liberal with the tequila bottle Friday night. I’ve been in recovery mode ever since. At the moment, I wear the same pajama pants that I’ve camped out in all weekend. My hair would make crazy cat lady say “Sweetheart, have you heard of a brush?”
The grandkids really are at the aquarium right now. My plan was to get a jump on a few blog posts and maybe work on the other two projects I have going at the moment.
Instead, I took a nap.
It was a good nap, y’all.
I’ve been working on positive self talk for a few years now. I have gone from failing miserably to occasionally turning my negative self talk around.
The writing thing seems to be where my insecurity hangs out these days.
I read and admire other writers and think, you know, you can do this. Sure, perhaps you still have some practicing to do and you MUST start editing, but other than that, you don’t suck.
Then I read the bios of other bloggers and writers and see things like:
- Wrote syndicated column read by every human on the planet. Printed copies are being sent up the next time someone, somewhere goes up to space so that other species might be entertained as well.
- World traveler whose hobby includes learning foreign languages while cooking at the local homeless shelter. Also, wrote the definitive guide for loading carry on bags in the overhead bins.
- English teacher who has been awarded ‘teacher of the year’ and ‘human of the universe’ for three consecutive years.
- Mommy blogger whose housekeeping tips have been featured in women’s magazines as well as projected into sleep study participant’s dreams.
How am I ever going to be a real writer? I don’t have that kind of experience. When I look back over the past 30 years, I see cleaning up a lot of puke, avoidance of housework, languishing in cubicles, and decades of living inside my own head.
I feel like I’m being foolish for trying. My life has been mundane, mostly. No exotic trips, except for that one where I went to the Cayman Islands and our hotel burned down. I am not sure that the Cayman Islands are considered exotic or not. When I was a kid, the thought of Kansas seemed exotic.
Then I lived there for a year. Nothing against Kansas, Kansas was fine, but lacking in the exotic department. There were a surprising number of really good Mexican restaurants, though.
I didn’t go to college, I’ve had no formal training and my writing income, for my entire life, could cover one of my current car payments and half the amount of my monthly electric bill.
I let my inner voice take me down these nasty alleyways and I wonder why I keep going.
Another voice has been chiming in. This voice is gaining strength and making that other shitty voice waver a little.
I kicked ass at Listen To Your Mother.
I had a post go viral on The Huffington Post.
I was published in two books and am pretty sure I will be accepted into third fairly soon.
I continually get positive support from people who read my blog. I’ve connected with groups of amazing bloggers who support each other and who want to see their friends grow.
I’d keep writing even if I never made another dime.
I keep going because writing is fun for me. I keep going because writing beats the shit out of always choosing to veg out in front of the TV. I keep going because every once in a while, I manage to write a line that makes me laugh out loud. Not often, but sometimes.
This weekend has been amazing. Our grandkids are growing up and are fascinating and adorable little noise makers.
Last night, my favorite son in law set up a projector and a screen in our backyard so that we could watch an episode of Doctor Who. I am attempting to convert them. I chose Blink. We’ll see if it worked or not. Perhaps I didn’t get a lot of writing done, but my time was well spent. Even the nap today.
Randy and I will be spending the evening at a venue in Newport, Kentucky to see Ray Wylie Hubbard perform. I’ve been wanting to catch one of his shows for years and am quite looking forward to it.
Tomorrow, when the house is quiet and no one is telling between one and three kids that they have to stop bouncing the balls in the house, I will curl back up in my little dark cave of a bedroom and write about something new. Or old. Who knows?
Either way, whether my experience is extensive or impressive or exotic doesn’t fucking matter, does it?
I still get to tell my stories and make myself laugh and write down words until the buzzing in my brain stops, or at least quiets a little.
That is my life as a blogger.