Yesterday, I hit a milestone with my blog: 200 posts.
Small beans to some, I know. But I’m proud of myself. Last year, I set myself a goal of being more open with my writing. Putting myself out there. And I’ve done that, on here and with my manuscripts.
Over this past year, there’s been some days when it’s seemed too hard to write. In between mum-ing and paid work and volunteer work and household stuff and all things required to retain a modicum of a social life, I wondered how I could manage one more duty. Especially one that aligns with selfish dreams and desires.
But it’s vital for me, and all other writers, to write. Seems obvs, doesn’t it? Yet, it’s the first thing that slips off the to-do list. Well for me, anyway. Yesterday I wrote about how I hate the heat, but the sub-plot was the guilt I feel for not doing stuff with my kids while they’re on holidays. They’re bored. I look at them now. Sullen faces, eye-rolling a-plenty, watching a shit Netflix show because I won’t let them be on their iPads all day.
At the moment, I’m not letting my writing slip from my list of things To Be Done. I’m clinging selfishly to it. I’m deep into my next ms, enjoying the work I’m doing—aside from the beginning which is still NQR—and I’m loathe to stop, even to suppress guilt and be a proper mum. So I continue. And they continue to look at me with thinly veiled contempt and boredom.
Ah, well… that’s life and all its competing and conflicting issues. Isn’t it?