My very first blog post says something pithy like, "Writers write." Yes, they do. And apparently they also do laundry, shuttle kids to baseball games, pack lunches and waste time on Facebook.
I started this blog so that I would write. Because, quite simply, I wanted to be a writer. So, I blogged every day for the first bit. Really, I did. Hard to believe it now, isn't it, when I'm doing well to get in a couple of columns a month?
My brilliant author friend Bonnie noted in her recent Fiction Matters blog post that what writers actually like to do is everything but write. They (We) like to talk about writing, talk about books, perhaps (and I take liberties here) even talk about what's for dinner.
My personal take is that I like the idea of having created rather than the process of actually creating. I think this translates to other things--wouldn't it be nice to have the newborn without having the nine months of morning sickness, sleepless nights and ill-fitting maternity clothes?
But then I remember, that means I would have missed the feeling of the lives that have grown inside me. Even now, when I am quite positive that we are done having children around this casa, it does make me a little sad to realize I won't have that feeling of a baby's first movements again. Granted by month 9, when his or her little skull is resting quite uncomfortably on your bladder, maybe that feeling is more bitter than sweet. But there are so many wonderful things that do come with the process of creating--feelings, nuances and of course, the ability to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon or eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's with downright encouragement from others rather than disdain.
In writing, as with life, I suppose it is indeed the journey and not just the destination--which in this case we hope to be the top of the New York Times Best-Seller list. So although I cannot promise to completely eschew Facebook, I will do my best not to let my pretty little head be distracted by all the sparkly things it offers. The things that take me away from that thing that I profess to love--writing--are worthy of my disdain. Especially laundry. Oooh, and cleaning toilets--really disdainful.
I have a story in my head and no private catered island on which to hunker down and write. It's just going to have to be squished in between baseball games and grocery shopping. I am not the first to do so, neither will I be the last. An island of my own may be too much to ask for, but a room of my own has to start in my head--at least til I make that first million.
To the 26 people who do faithfully read here at WordMom, thanks so much for the encouragement. I'll need it. And if you have a private island to loan out, I would gladly accept that as well. I'll even name a character after you.
