As a writer I need time to myself. I need the opportunity to be able to think and imagine without distraction. I have to say it’s even more difficult now that I’m working on the second draft of my novel; the writing, when I was fully into it, could sometimes be done even amidst the chaos that is my children.
Every other weekend, typically, I have this time alone when the children are with their father. What I think annoys me the most is that it takes me a day to simply wind down from the twelve previous days I’ve had to take care of them. They leave on Friday night, but it’s usually not until sometime late Saturday afternoon that I am in a state of mind where I can sit and concentrate.
So why am I not working on it now? I’m coming up to a major edit and this post has been bothering me, niggling in my brain to be written. This is me, getting it over and done with. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I also wanted to say that, writing a novel makes me feel a bit like this guy:
Disturbing, isn’t he? I found him at the Museum of Fine Arts in Montreal two weekends ago. The hands are my characters, wrapping themselves around my brain and wanting to get out; the hole is the feeling I have as I pour forth my entire being into my writing, onto the pages.
I hope my writing talent is worthy of such sentiment. If it is, I’m sure to be successful.