I haven't been writing much in the last few days. It's crazy how life sort of takes over sometimes. Between my 'day job' ramping up in a lot of ways, making decisions about my kids' schools for next fall, and managing the house and marriage (and if you have one of these, you probably know that it does take some management...), and it seems like time just gets away. I'm reading The Paris Wife, as I mentioned previously. And of course I've read Hemmingway's A Moveable Feast, which was about the same period, the same people -- the same life. I also watched Midnight in Paris with a friend last week, and though I'm not a big Woody Allen fan, I did find this idea to be charming, maybe because it was about a writer who is struggling with so much of what I think about each day. But in the movie, and also in the books, the writers involved are all struggling with writing. And with not much more. I can only imagine what Fitzgerald or Hemmingway would think of my attempts to find traction in the term "writer" -- to make it accurately describe me -- in the midst of all the other crap I deal with. One hour at 4:30 am on a few mornings a week does not a writer make, they would probably say. And truthfully, I look at my completed manuscript, which is printed and sitting on the edge of my desk right now while it is with the editor, and I wonder exactly how it came about. I did take a week off work to focus on it around the holidays, that is true. But there was a lot of other time too, that I can't seem to find these days.
We're getting ready to start swimming and soccer again... and the afternoons are long and filled with kids riding their bikes and parents in shorts and capris making distracted cul-de-sac conversation. And by the time the sun is finally tracking down behind the trees in our yard and I'm in the kitchen making dinner, it is hours later than I'd thought. And the kids are grumpy and need a bath and by the time it's all over for the night, I have nothing left for my house or my husband, let alone for me or my efforts at writing.
I realize this is mostly and excuse and a complaint. But it's also the truth.