On Writing, From the Mouths of Babes

This morning while I was making breakfast, my 11-year old, out of nowhere, said, "Mom, I just realized something."

"What did you realize?"

"You have two jobs. One as a mother, and one as an author."

I loved having him refer to me as an author!

"You're right," I said, "and the funny part is, I don't get paid for either job."

We talked about it for a minute, and decided I should make $400,000 for the motherhood job ($100K per kid), or the same amount as the President of the United States. For the other job, at this point I think I'd be happy with four figures. So maybe that will be my modest goal for 2009: to earn four figures as an author.

And lest I flag in this endeavor, I'll keep in mind another thing my 11-year old said to me recently. He had been working on one of those absurd book reports they assign in fifth grade--absurd because it was really an art project, one which required drawings of scenes and the main characters, and a five-line summary of the plot, which then had to be cut into pieces resembling a jigsaw puzzle. Projects like this drive my son (and me) insane, because though he loves books, he lacks dexterity and would be much better off just writing the damn report.

In any event, he spent hours on this project, emerging from his rooom periodically to issue progress reports. When he was done, he proudly presented me with the completed assignment and sighed loudly.

"Great job, honey!" I congratulated him.

"And you know the amazing part?" he asked.

"What?"

"This page used to be blank."

A light bulb went on in my stupid little brain. Well duh! I chided myself. All writing starts with a blank page. If I don't work on it, it stays blank. If I want the book done, as I profess, I have to work at it, just like my son did with his project. It's so simple. So why is it so damn hard?

The Blank Page

My desire to write has been going unfulfilled lately. It's my own fault, I realize this, and I am determined to address this problem. My excuse for not writing creatively is, as usual, I have too much other stuff to do. Take Thursday, for example. We normally get up around 6:00, get one kid off to school at 6:30, get another kid off to school at 7:00, get the last one off to school at 8:45. Between 7:00 and 8:45 I usually read the paper (online); check my email; take my turn at Facebook Scrabble; take a shower; sometimes do dishes and laundry. I suppose I could be using at least some of that time for writing, but the fact is Hubby is still home (reminding me to go to the bank, pay the taxes, do the office bills, make dinner reservations, or a hundred other things), as is the last kid, who wants to know what's for breakfast, what he should wear, if he can have a friend over after school. I don't mind these interruptions, as they are the stuff life is made of. But they are not conducive to creative writing.

Thursday was even less conducive to writing than usual. Thursday, owing to the single digit temperatures outside, there was a school delay. Meaning I did not have the house to myself until 11:00, at which time I made chicken salad and homemade cream of broccoli soup for lunch and did some dishes. By the time I did those two things, Hubby was home for lunch. And by the time he left, well, you get the picture. The rest of the afternoon was spent driving the kids to and fro, and by the time I got home, writing was just not in the cards.

I should to take a lesson from Stephen King. In his book On Writing, he talks about writing his first novel, Carrie, on a portable typewriter in his laundry room when he and his wife (and two small children) were dirt poor and he was working days as a college English teacher. Or maybe it was high school. In any event, if Stephen King can produce under much more trying, or at least diverting, circumstances than mine, I should be able to do the same. (Well, maybe not the same. We're talking about a guy who allegedly produces 10,000 words PER DAY. A guy with a wife to do all the stuff that I do.)

In any event, I'm writing this, as a warm-up to the serious writing to which I intend to return, right after MLK day. Did I mention that school was cancelled Friday so everyone was home all day? And thanks to MLK, no school on Monday either. But, to borrow a line, or at least a theme, from MLK himself, we shall overcome.