Mission Impossible

It occurred to me the other day that being a writer might be too hard for a mother of a two-and –a-half-year-old girl.

It seems when my daughter was first born, the offers to babysit were more than I could handle. Each and every day there was a line of people around the block desperate to kick me out of my home and get their hands on my baby. Now it’s difficult to pin down two hours a week that I can leave my daughter with a family member and write without feeling guilty and like I’m taking advantage or using up someone else’s free time to create free time for myself. I’m sensitive to this kind of thing anyway. I have a hard time asking people to help me.

I managed to get out for a couple hours yesterday during a time that was supposed to be designated as my “artist’s date.” I think I’ve mentioned that I’m reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It’s an excellent book for recovering your inner artist but I can’t help but feel ashamed as I read it that I can only make about two percent of the suggested exercises actually happen.

The artist date is supposed to be two-hours-a-week that you spend all alone doing absolutely fun and frivolous stuff like painting at a park, reading a play, or walking through an art supplies store. I think I executed two actual artist dates, that was about two months ago. Yesterday, I took the two hours to sit at a coffee shop and work on my poor neglected non-fiction manuscript. I haven’t worked on it in ages.

The truly startling thing I realized when I opened up my document was that I am really close to being done! I became motivated to finish it up when I talked to the owner of Tapestry Books recently and he told me that they may start publishing this summer and if they do, they may be interested in publishing my book…provided it’s finished of course. So I carved out some time and got into it. It is amazing what I can accomplish with two uninterrupted hours. I can finish about a forty-hour-week’s worth of work.

Usually posting one blog post takes me half a day, working in two-minute-increments between making snacks, pushing Twila around in her baby-doll stroller, answering the phone, accompanying Twila to the restroom, eating play-dough cookies and perfecting just the right reaction to the cookies to please her majesty, and answering endless repetitive questions.

But two hours all alone; that’s another story. I could practically write a whole novel. Needless to say, I am very excited for preschool this fall.