a mom who writes must maintain her commitment to the words. She must sit down and face the page, the fears, the demons of her past and she must simply, again and again, write.
Unlike any other writer, her time is not her own.
The demands of motherhood and often care for the house and the feeding of those in that house, and the job that brings in some money and all the other roles that a mother must play, well… all that doesn’t leave much time to leisurely explore the wreck and get those words down on the page.
I am exploring what is possible in those small spaces that a mother (me) might find in her day. While waiting for the water to heat for my shower, I wrote a poem. Maybe that is what made me dizzy, and not the heat in the bathroom or that I skipped lunch (again.)
These few weeks, I am afraid that S is going to see the reason why I am a crappy housekeeper. For a long time, I thought it was because I was just lazy and not very good at cleaning. That still may be true, but I think the real reason I suck at keeping house is because I am a writer.
Sure, other writers are able to sweep the baseboards, but I am not. And in the last few years when I have been struggling with the day to day care of two small children and a very messy house, I have also been struggling with my anemic creativity.
I think that is one of the reasons I am not as productive or as neat as I could be. The pull from one role makes me feel guilty and anxious about the neglect of the other, so I try to do little bits of both, neither of which are very effective or fulfilling.
Maybe if I commit more dedicated time to writing, I won’t feel the need to neglect the small time I have to house cleaning, and I will be energized to get something done on that front, too.
Uh oh. I hear babies.
And thus my small time is through for now.
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