I’ve been very strict with myself over the past few weeks, ensuring I make at least one hour a day to write. I’ve engineered child-free hours (thank God for holiday clubs), I’ve learnt to work with the TV blaring so as not to completely abandon hubby and I have, of course, carried my trusty notebook around to work on writing prompts in my lunch hour.
This is all planned writing time, I look forward to it. I rush through my day craving those few precious hours – or sometimes minutes – when I can shut the day out and dive into my own head. It’s my wind down time, the only time that I am allowed to be me and do something for myself.
I knew I loved to write but I didn’t realise how cathartic it was until I’m prevented from carving time out for it. Some days, the schedule of chores and family time becomes all consuming. These days are bittersweet, having fun and creating memories with the family and friends whom I adore is what I live for, but the whispering ribbon of anxiety is ever present, weaving its way through these good times, hinting at the pages of unwritten words clamouring to leave my head. I know they’ll come out eventually but some days, given the choice I could quite easily morph into a selfish hermit with very little persuasion.
I will most probably be unable to work on my WIP today and I can already feel the itch developing that will remain unscratched, this blog post, this metaphorical backscratcher, will relieve the pressure just enough for me to concentrate on real conversations with real people. I will have a good day, I will laugh, I will enjoy people’s company and then, at the end of it, I will scoop up my tired children and come home. I will tuck them in bed, iron their clothes, make their packed lunches and then, if I’m very lucky, have enough time and energy to open my laptop and move my characters on a few thousand words.
If not, you should probably steer clear of this pressure cooker on Monday.