I love my children.
I love my writing.
But for some perverse reason, these two can never mix. NEVER. At least not yet. The chickens are fairly self-sufficient. I say "make a sandwich," and lo and behold, a sandwich is made. I say "clean your room," and lo and behold, a room is cleaned. Relatively.
But my writing calls for my complete attention. I can't just look at the blank screen and say, "Write a novel. A brilliant novel. A novel that will capture readers with its wit and warmth." Nope. Tried that. *grinning*
I must baby my writing. Coddle it. I draw the line at cooing, but you get my drift.
At times, it is rather like another sibling in my house. A sibling which is demanding and egocentric. ME ME ME
And the chickens resent this. Who is this unseen force which drives their Mother stupid without half-trying and consumes almost her every waking moment?
They don't think I have a job. Seriously. They think I sit and chat on the computer and probably think I would do my nails here if I could get away with it. I can't explain to them yet that my writing IS consuming because it is the thing I wish most to do.
I don't neglect my chickens, don't get me wrong. Anyone who has read my blog realizes I volunteer at the school and such. We do homework. We chat. I know what's going on in their lives. I know who they like. I know their grades.
But they don't realize yet what I do. The mature content of my books (romance) is not suitable for their pre-teen selves. My 10 year-old asked when she could read my work. "Sixteen," I said. "At least."
I have no doubt the day will come when they will realize I've done more than sit on my butt and type e-mails.
They will look at the other works of art I've had a part in making and smile. And they'll realize that even though I spent time creating a book, I take the most pride in part of their creation. My living masterpieces. My mouthy masterpieces, sometimes. But I digress.
10 months ago