Peace and Quiet...NOT

Every day that goes by it's becoming more and more clear that I am seriously struggling to find some way to write while being a stay at home mom.

Take this morning for example. I find that I can write better in the morning (which is opposite of how I used to be). So I check my email, get the boy settled in with Mickey Mouse and breakfast, and for about a half hour I have time to start writing. It takes half of that for the words to start flowing, then I manage to bang out a couple of sentences. Then toddler jumps on me. Concentration shattered. He goes away, I start writing again, then he decides that all his DVDs are toys and starts playing a strange toddler version of shuffleboard-meets-frisbee with them. Concentration shattered as I clean them up and then try to clean up the rest of the room. More emails to be answered. I try to de-stress by looking at writing related blogs after my angry tirade because toddler throws all the newly cleaned up toys on the floor... Thankfully, toddler starts playing nicely by himself again, so I look at my story... and then he wants a snack. I get the snack, and he wants me to play matchbox cars. The phone rings... and so on, and so on...

Now I'm mentally frazzled, and the last thing I want to do is write. By the time nap-time rolls around in the afternoon, I'm exhausted. Same thing in the evenings. At night the words don't come, even if I have BIC (butt in chair) with manuscript open. I'm too stressed and worn out. Nighttime is better for doing artwork or jewelry, not left brain word type stuff, where my hands seem to move on their own, with little interference from an over-tired mind.

This will all change when he goes to school, I know this. The problem is I'm putting way too much pressure on myself to keep up with my writing buddies/peers. Maybe I'm not supposed to take my writing to the next level right now. And maybe that's OK.

-k.

Less progress

I'm one pooped puppy. I'm going to sit here with my document open and stare at it and surf and stare and try to muster my writing brain cells for one more charge tonight, but it's not looking good, folks. Those poor neurons are badly outnumbered by the combined might of exhaustion and resistance.

some progress

Okay, so today I'm feeling less befuddled and blocked, and there is some slight progress, possibly because of my riff-writing last night. For those of you who are interested in such things, here's the newest version of that snippet I posted before, from the very beginning of Chapter Two. It's still far from perfect, but I think it's rounded out just enough now for me to MOVE ON. Which I better hurry up and do, because I need to turn this sucker in on Friday to my writing group.

No matter how hard or fast Mist scrubbed, the mountain of dirty pots kept growing taller. They covered the entire length of the nearby worktable in a stinking soiled heap of jumbled bronze saucepans, iron skillets, and three legged cauldrons. The truly big ones, the black vats roomy enough to bathe in, were haphazardly stacked nearby, left for Saru and Eno, the two burly kitchen boys.

An hour’s worth of scrubbing, and I haven’t even made a dent. The thought exhausted her. With a miserable sigh she eyed the biggest vat, half tempted to climb inside and curl up like one of the kitchen cats in the cool dark interior. She wouldn’t mind the grime because she already stank of grease. The rancid smell clung to her hair and wafted up from the damp spots on her linen shift.

But she squashed the thought. Someone would miss her and the few, stolen moments of rest wouldn’t be worth the punishment she’d get. Maybe though, she could sneak a tiny break. One just long enough to work out the kink in her back, that spot that felt like someone had rammed a carving knife between her shoulder blades. After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she pushed away from the stone wash basin and, hands on her hips, she stretched out her aching back.

“Mist! Back to work,” one of the undercooks snapped.

Without even looking to see who’d issued the order, Mist grabbed the nearest pot and dunked it into the basin. She knew better than to complain on a banquet day. She wasn’t alone in her misery; today every single slave in Master Doro’s kitchens worked at a feverish pace and tempers ran high. Using a stiff bristled brush, she furiously worked at the remains of a creamy mushroom sauce that had hardened into black cement. Four more hours before she got a break, a bite of bread, and a moments rest, and then the clean up would begin. She’d be lucky to see her sleeping mat before midnight. The sauce refused to come clean so Mist tossed a handful of soap pellets into the water and churned it up into a bubbly froth. The harsh soap, which she helped make a fortnight ago from potash and tallow, stung her skin. Her hands would be chapped and cracked before the day was done.

Gods, how she hated banquet days—up since dawn running coal, scouring pots and mostly trying to keep out of trouble. Somehow though, trouble kept finding her.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and roughly spun her around.

And now I'm off to change a diaper. Because diapers take precedence over writing, even when you are on a deadline.

-k.

Free Writing

Daily Word Goal: 500 words
Today's Total: 622

God, I tired. I forced myself to do some free writing on this scene I've been agonizing over after everyone went to bed. Covered a lot of old ground, but sparked a couple new ideas to deepen stuff, and help me visualize, so, no real progress at all, but at least I wrote SOMETHING tonight.

-k

Resistance 1, Karyn 0

Okay, between trips to the zoo, the store, beading, drawing and the regular weekend stuff, I got no writing done. Nada.

Tomorrow my son turns three, so I'm not expecting much writing to happen then either. And my deadline looms! This month's submission to my critique group is Friday.

Gotta find the time to get cracking!

k