It's not easy being a writer. When I
tell people what I do for a living, their eyes light up with
curiosity. They ask how many novels I've published or if MGM is going
to buy the screen rights to my script. When I confess that none of
this has happened yet, their interest quickly turns to leaky rain
gutter solutions or the inflated price of ham hocks.
Fortunately, I have a family who
understands the writing life. While they're mostly supportive of my
efforts, there are times when my career interrupts the household
harmony we've worked so hard to establish. They remember the
organized woman with the color-coded calendars and an alphabetized
spice rack. I was always the first mom in the school car loop and the
first to volunteer for every committee conceivable.
I wrote when I could, filling
notebooks with plot outlines, dialogue and character sketches drawn
from an overzealous imagination. But over time, the notebooks ended
up orphaned and unfinished under my bed, home to dust bunnies and
wayward socks.
Once the kids graduated from
school, my carpool and P.T.A. meeting days ended. I pulled out the
dusty notebooks and woke my dormant muse.
I've been hooked ever since.
Writing is my addiction. There's an adrenaline rush after each
publication and I wake every day needing a new fix. My family
understands this. If I miss an appointment or the mortgage payment,
it's because my mind is engaged in a new plot twist.
My husband remembers a house that
was once tidy and clean, even when we had several toddlers at home.
Nowadays I forget that there are crusty dishes the height of Mount
Rushmore in the sink, an overloaded trash can that smells like a
skunk convention and dirty clothes multiplying like rabbits in the
laundry room.
There are also days when I forget
to shower and shave, and my husband mistakes me for a winter
sasquatch. I hole up in my office and live on granola bars until
someone offers to cook me a wholesome meal that doesn't include oats,
nuts and twigs.
Lack of sleep is another issue I
deal with as a writer. Between bouts of insomnia and a hyperactive
muse, I've become a nocturnal creature, related to the animals who
think clearest at night. If I'm struck with writer's block, or worse,
rejection, the family suffers right alongside me. I become as moody
as a prepubescent teen and have been known to shovel donuts in my
mouth to stimulate my lackluster imagination.
Despite a few dry spells, I never
lose faith that inspiration will return and crank up the sluggish
gears in my brain to feed the creative spirit.
Once I write the final sentence
and hit the “post” button, the adrenaline rush starts again. A
fresh page and a world of possibilities await my imagination.
This is the life of a writer, and
I wouldn't trade it for all the donuts and clean laundry in the
world.
***Want more Meno Mama? This week you can find me discussing what really bugs me (and several other bloggers!) on Sisterwives Speak: http://sisterwivesspeak.com/2014/10/28/whats-bugging-you-she-said/
