I’ve written numerous blogs thus far about the inexplicable and forcible need to write. That soul urge to spill thoughts and emotions into words across a page in either a glorious display, or a pathetic array.
But, when to find the time to maintain that level of commitment and sustain the hours of momentum needed to create works of art?
When I think of the great artists, be they either artists or writers, many of them are men. Not only are they men, they are men with little attachments in regards to family and children. They are part madmen, and part scholars. Imbibers of the full poison and glory that is life.
The women, on the other hand, are also mad. Virginia Wolf committed suicide. Sylvia Plath did the same. Granted, there are other female writers that did not: J.K. Rowling., Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Kostova, etc.
Yet, these women have time to write. Each one made it their business to be freed up to write. Rowling was penniless and jobless when she started Harry Potter, Kostova didn’t have a concrete profession nor does she have children.
Well, Jodi Picoult, is a very busy woman and I have no right to compare myself to her, besides the fact she wrote her first book before she had children. She was pregnant at the time. She now has three kids, a small farm with fur babies and still continues to write. I wonder if she sleeps. I need to sleep.
I’m not writing to complain. Actually, I am writing to motivate myself to write. I am a busy woman. I am an English teacher (18 years), a mother of a six and eight year old, and I run my household. I have a wonderfully handy husband who loves to work outdoors and is a great mechanic. But, domestic responsibilities flee from his fingertips as if he’s sprayed himself with a repellant.
In the midst of all that above, and of course the six inch stack of papers I need to check, I’m supposed to find time to write. I often wrestle whether the amount of energy necessary to pursue this lifelong goal is manageable in my world.
While writing this current blog, I have been interrupted at least five times by children wanting to go outside and play in the first worthy snowfall of the year. This is my life. Trying to write while parenting, maintaining my house, and with a bag of papers nagging from the corner of my kitchen.
I often ask God to give me a sign whether it is worth the concentrated effort to chase after this destiny that has been throbbing in my insides since the sixth grade. The response is always, “I have given you many signs.” And, he has. Truly big signs. The signs don’t come anymore because the response back is something like… “I have given you many. Could you stop writing now even if you could?”
I can’t. That pursuit has become a part of my defining characteristics. It has become part of my list of things: mother, teacher, writer, wife, friend, daughter, daughter-in-law, and so and so on.
So, I continue the madness of multi-tasking the dual role of writing and parenting. And, occasionally stealing myself away from my family and hanging out in coffee shops, or cafes to follow this dream that is as much a part of who I am as any role given to me by biology.
It isn’t easy. I hope it’s worth it. But, it shouldn’t matter. I write because it is the expression of the necessity of my soul. If I get a professional publishing contract, then I will rejoice and check off a major life goal. Until then, I will tie snow boots in between writing a paragraph here and a paragraph there.