I Write

I write from an uncomfortable position cramped on the couch with a three-year-old love bug tangled up beside me. I’m not sure where his limbs end and mine begin. My laptop balances precariously on my thigh and ankle as I struggle to type and keep the child from hitting any extra letters on the keyboard. The author voice in my head is drowned out by the animated voices of Po and Tigress, challenging my ability to focus. Sometimes I’m drawn into watching Kung Fu Panda instead.

Around me, the toasty basement den is a blur of motion. Balls are rolling, boys are running, screaming, and ducking. Games are scattered. The television flickers. An occasional toy goes flying. There’s laughter, conversation, questions, and squeals. For most of the day, I’m right there in the middle of it. For now, I write.

I write to satisfy that part of me that wants to be me. Or maybe that part of me that doesn’t want to be me. I choose to spend my time taking care of my children, my husband, and my home. It’s a lot of work, and it’s not always pretty. There’s the screaming—the children’s and mine—the vomit, the cooking, the never-ending cleaning, the discipling, the teaching, the listening, the laundry, the playing, the inventing, the fixing, the chauffeuring, the trying-to-make-everything-fun, and a whole lot of other stuff. It’s exhausting, and I love it…. most of the time. The other times? I write.

I write to be in control. In the real world, I have limited control. I can’t script the things my husband says to me, try as I might, and I can’t change the way my kids behave. When I write, distances become surmountable, circumstances change, and possibilities become endless. It’s a special place, just for me, where requests for snacks, changes of clothes, laundry, dishes, dinner, and rides to soccer practice don’t have to be addressed. I can explore issues and relationships as deeply as I desire, evoking whatever emotions I feel like having that day.

I write throughout the day for the thirty-or-so minutes after feeding my children until someone needs something or is hungry again. I tell myself I’m learning to become more focused by making the most of these small snippets of writing time. There’s no time to waste getting in the mood to write. I can’t wait for inspiration to strike. If there’s going to be any words on the page at the end of the day, I have to jump in and start typing. No crippling fears about whether it’s any good. No handing my inner editor a red pen, allowing her to bloody my recently created pages. I write.

Gone is the peaceful vision of writing my best-selling novel from my quiet corner desk while sipping a hot caramel latte and enjoying a mountain view. Maybe someday. But for now, I write.