I am so disappointed… I get all of these fantastic words and phrases flying through my head, and my writer’s fingers just itch to put them forth, but here I am sitting past midnight and all I can do is groan about how I don’t get time to write.
It seems like by the time I do Abdullah’s surahs, feed the kids, eat myself, do my lessons, feed the kids (ad infinitum), and put them down to sleep, there’s not a damn minute left for me to just sit and “be.” Forget the creative juices when the ideas are swimming in my head and they don’t get a chance to see the light of day. There’s at least three pieces that have been floating around in my head, but haven’t made it to the page (or screen, if you will).
I wish I had the leisure to be like Jo March in Little Women, who, when the “writing fit” comes on, locks herself in her room to scribble like mad:
Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and `fall into a vortex’, as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her `scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn, Jo?”
…She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit.
I must be the only person mad enough to wish such a thing! When I do get my alone time I voraciously devour it, sitting up until late at night, knowing I will be bitterly regretting it when woken in the night by one of the kids, and in the early morning when I have to face the day’s chores yet again.
Writing is unbelievably cathartic–and narcissistic, if you will. It is about the self–what is important to me, enough that I twist the words just so to get them to jab at the point dear to me. It’s about taking the most intangible emotions and forcing them to take form on the page.
I must make that time, draw it out of the day’s limited hours, even if it is to only say, as I write here, that I wish I had the time to write!