I was going to say that this post is to illustrate how pathetic my life is. But that would be inaccurate, because my actual life is not pathetic at all. I have a great home, job, husband and kids. I love my life.
What’s pathetic, is my writing life.
You know, that whole Virginia Woolf “Room of One’s Own” thing? Well, you know about my “room” for writing — the corner of my desk around the computer that I am sometimes able to excavate enough to see the top of the desk and sometimes not, which regularly gets crowded with the kids’ school projects and Legos and Jason’s stuff and everyone’s books and random papers.
Not only do I not have an entire room of my own for writing, the desk is a perfect metaphor for my so-called writing life. It’s a little bit of space I can clear away from the everyday, which constantly gets cluttered up with the needs and demands of the other people in my life, not to mention with my own distractions.
Here’s how low my expectations for “writing time” have sunk. Some months ago, my writer-friend Katrina, of the lovely Stone Soup blog, posted that her family had given her the incredible gift of 19 days of solitude away from home — time to read, sleep, write, revise, as needed.
It’s obvious that I can’t even comprehend that level of luxury (Katrina, like me, is a busy mom who has to squeeze her writing time in around her family’s demands) because when I quickly read her blog post, I misread and thought she was getting away, not for 19 days, but for 19 HOURS.
And … the sad part?
I was still excited for her.
Even 19 hours away seems like a luxury at some points. Like, this point in my life.
So, this weekend I am getting a writing getaway. It’s not 19 hours, but it’s not much more — I think it will work out to about 28 or 29 hours if I’m lucky. Given that I don’t write on Sabbaths, it will be mainly Saturday night and Sunday, but even so it’s a thrill compared to the usual 15-minute bursts of writing I’m able to squeeze in here and there. The lovely and talented Tina Chaulk and I are renting a house for the weekend so we can get away from our everyday responsibilities and put a push on to finish our current novels. We’re not even staying two full nights, but even so … I am excited beyond belief. More than 24 hours (admittedly, there’ll be some sleeping in there) when all I have to do is hammer this draft of That Forgetful Shore into shape?