Some days – OK, most days – OK, every day – all I want to do is write. It’s my simple desire. I yearn for it. My heart pumps faster just thinking about it. My brain swirls with thoughts, ideas, and possibilities for new composition. Just knowing a chance is coming to sit down and let my fingers begin their dance, my soul arouses as everything I look at, hear, smell, read, digest, becomes fodder for my next creation. I am titillated in anticipation of what will come. (Hee hee, I used ‘aroused’ and ‘titillated’ right after each other – even though I spelled the latter wrong the first time.)
The reason I’m reflecting on this right now is because I don’t always get the luxury to write to my heart’s content. I mean, it’s already been 10 days since my last post, which bugs me. The thing is, in order to write, I sometimes have to be stealthy and cunning, like a wolf stalking its prey. Because even though I am a writer, I also have two other important vocations: a wife and mother. Each of which come with their own supplementary job titles we’ve all heard before: lover, breadwinner, nurse, shopper, gardener, pool cleaner, taxi driver, social worker, chef, and more. Some of these jobs I do well, others with varying levels of success (hopefully the lover part isn’t a fail! – hmm, what’s with the sex talk today?!)
I’m not always that good at it. My attempt at stealth is sometimes too conspicuous and ill timed. Sometimes, I stupidly think it’s enough if I have my laptop on my lap (aptly named), my eyes clearly fixed on the screen before me, my wrists poised on the keyboard, my fingers tapping in rhythm, that those around me will glean I’m trying to write, and perhaps avoid approaching and head for safety. But, I’ve been a mother for over 10 years now and a wife for over 12, I should know not to be surprised by any “out-of-the-blue, suddenly-urgent, I-have-to-ask-you-this-right-now-or-the-world-will-crumble-and-we-will-all-die-a-horrible-suffering-death-because-you-aren’t-paying-attention-to-me” moments from either husband or children that conflict with what I’ve attempted to deem as writing time. I should know, but too easily I forget and leave myself out in the open and exposed.
Maybe you think I’m being dramatic using the wolf analogy, but I actually did growl at my husband on the weekend after his 5th question to me related to whether I was still planning on trimming the hedge, or if I could help him fix the gate, or if there would be time that day to go out and get some beer. I can’t even remember what it was about, and it doesn’t matter. What I do distinctly remember is the deep rumbling sound that started in my chest and was emitted in my throat as my lips snarled in the direction of my life partner: the wolf staking claim to her fresh kill as an intruder nears. I felt utter exasperation by yet another interruption, and it brimmed over. In my head I thought, “Are you kidding me with this? Can you not clearly see the brilliance oozing forth at this moment with every inspired fingertip touch to the keyboard?” I guess the profundity of the words I was so beautifully weaving together at the time were not transcendent enough to touch his soul – only mine. Ultimately it’s my fault for not pre-defining to my loved ones what “writing time” means: stay away or beware my inner canine.
Writing is my escape. It’s my discovery. I’m literally sitting here grinning as I type these words. I’m not kidding, and I don’t even know if this is a decent post. It might suck. The world may not be shifted in the least because of these reflections I’m sharing right now but I don’t care! At this moment, I simply don’t care because I am elated to be typing here with a goofy grin on my face, in an quiet sleepy house (aside from my sleeping dog who at any moment could destroy the quiet part of this description by jolting awake in a barking frenzy at some random sound that likely only took place in her head). Ah, the zen of it all.
So I know I have to hone my hunting skills because if writing gets tossed to the bottom of the Andrea pile, my wolf will begin to starve and who knows who will be her next prey.