Two little kids. Two blogs. Two novels-in-progress. And a freelance editorial business.
I am in a very busy season of life, with to-do lists coming out of my to-do lists, and another dozen things that I only remember when I can’t reach one of my lists. My kids come first, but then, depending on the week, there is a battle for second place. Sometimes, I think I might be crazy, trying to do make all these things happen. But when I consider putting one thing or the other aside for a while, I find that I can’t stay away for very long.
In the midst of all these things—when I’m changing a diaper, when I’m cooking a meal, when I’m rocking a little one to sleep—I’m often thinking about the next thing I’ll write. I’m writing, rewriting, editing all the time. I wonder, now and then, what it’s like to be inside the brain of someone who is not a writer. How are the gaps filled? What takes precedence?
For me, it is my characters. It is ways to up the ante with plot twists. It’s reflections on my role as a mother, how my faith is woven into that, and how I can express it to share with others.
The more time I spend doing these things that my particular life is made of, the more I realize that everything doesn’t have to happen at once. I might not write as many posts as I want to in a week. I might not make every self-imposed deadline. There are more important things right now, and their names are Jacob and Henry.
But when there is time, when I remember to make time, there is this other part of me that needs to breathe so that I can be the best mom, wife, daughter, in-law, sister, friend I can.
Sometimes I think I might be crazy. It’s those times when I’m sure that I’m a writer.