Summoning energy

A new week is breathing down my neck, and last week I didn't complete even one writing session. In fact, I've finished the week exhausted and wearied rather than ready to leap, refreshed, into the next one.  The baby is sapping my energy and it's a frenetic time of year - even when Grandmothers don't manage to squeeze in a 90th.

 I wondered whether to lower my expectations and only plan for two, rather than three, writing sessions next week.  But I decided in the end that it's better to aim high and miss than aim lower...and probably still miss. I suppose, with that in mind, I ought to go to bed ready for Monday.

Fetching the oojit from the whatsit

I don't know about baby brain, but something is wrong with mine. I remember a friend turning up at work with her home phone in her handbag instead of her mobile, and thinking it was funny, but it's as if I've lost all grasp of the English language (and I never had any grasp of any other language in the first place).
Yesterday I was trying to point out which was our compost bin to my mother-in-law and told her it was the green bin, when it was clearly grey.  Sometimes I end up falling back on nonsense, and asking Steve to turn the doo-dah down, or if a child can pass me the poky thing.  On occasion I've even been known to try a little game of Charades when the nonsense words fail me.  It's like living in a foreign land, and I've mislaid the thingymabob to help translate - you know, that book full of words and phrases you might need...
How am I going to do any good quality writing for the next six months?

Writing Routines

The Easter holiday is winding up;  just the May Day bank holiday left to enjoy.  I've done nowhere near as much writing as I hoped,  but then this has happened to me during school holidays before.  When I'm not at work, the children aren't out at school or pre-school, either. 

We've had a lovely break. Sometimes there is something very bleak about the shackles of routine. Most days I hate having to make the six-year old's packed lunch the evening before she needs it.  (In September, I will have to do the four-year old's too.  My heart is sinking already). There is something wearing about getting up at the same time every day, and spending the next hour and a half chivvying the children, encouraging them to get on independently, unpacking the dishwasher and all the other menial and repetitive tasks that seem so joyless and thankless.  (I'm trying to value these tasks a bit more, and think how they bless my little family.  I don't want to waste my life looking forward - I want to enjoy what I have now). Best of all, when it comes to holidays, I don't think I've said, 'Come on! We're late!' once in the past fortnight. 

I think it's true that we can determine much of our own happiness by our outlook, though, so I'm finding things that are positive about the end of the holidays.  Slipping back into the harness of routine will give back certain things I've missed: regular, well-planned meals, for a start, with a bit less of the junk and a bit more of the vegetable in them.  I've missed walking the children to school and back twice a day (you'd be amazed how much healthier and fitter I feel during termtime, just for that).  I'll get back those precious extra writing times when I can synchronise the two-year old's naps with the older two's times out of the house.  

For all the things I hate about constraints of routine, I do value it, too.  The break has been wonderful.  It was just what I needed, right then.  It's been great for us as a family.  But I'm ready for it to conclude.  And the conclusion I've come to is that I need to be stricter with myself about writing routines.  Two or three times carved out of my week isn't enough; it needs to be a daily thing, even if it's only for ten minutes.  Maybe within the chrysalis of a daily writing routine, there will be time for a miracle of creation to occur, even if what emerges is wet-winged and grounded in the beginning.

Tracing the Source

The six year old tells me she doesn't like writing.  She pulls a face in the morning sometimes, and complains that it's 'big writing' today. Is it just laziness?


I was thinking about when I first wanted to write.  I remember my Super Mum taking my sisters and I to the library for an author event.  I was five or six;  there was a grown-up lady alone in a room, with a table and some sheets of paper and pencils.  She seemed pleased to see us.  We made up a story together, and she scribed it for us.  With the patience of a saint, she allowed us to choose Will-o'-the-Wisp, our favourite TV character of the time, as our main character. Evil Edna figured highly, too.  She framed a story with a beginning, middle and end, guided our suggestions into something that vaguely resembled a real story, and autographed it for us. It wasn't quite as exciting as going to a farm park.


My first independent efforts were in a tiny spiral-bound notebook.  I was about seven, and fairy-tales were the clear inspiration, with wolves, goats and other marvellous elements included, along with the complete lack of money-sense that meant the wolf in one memorable tale stole ONE POUND!!!!! (sic).


It makes me smile to think of those early, staggering steps.  I wonder how to ignite Bean's passion;  she loves reading, but I want her to enjoy writing.  I want her to have better numeracy skills than her Mummy, as well.


Looking back, I'm grateful for that lonely author at the library, making us welcome and creating magic for us with someone else's characters.  I expect she was hoping we'd buy books, but this was in the bad old days when there was no money, and a pound really did seem a fortune.  Mum took us to the library because we couldn't afford books, but she believed that we couldn't afford not to have them. I might feel sorry for that author -  she gave much more than she received! But if I ever succeed with the writing dream, I hope I can make a difference in someone's life one day.  Surely that's worth more than a booksale.