I could be writing, but the scale model of the Himalayas in my kitchen isn’t going to wash itself.
I could be writing, but the laundry.
I could be writing, but I want to finish knitting this scarf for Missy (the one I’ve started and re-started three times already).
I could be writing, but she wants me to play grocery store with her and the new cash register she got for Christmas.
I could be writing, but I’m just. so. tired.
I could be writing, but Hubby wants to watch a movie.
I could be writing, but the toy box has exploded all over the living room.
I could be writing, but I should probably make more of an effort to get my daughter outside while it’s not raining.
I could be writing, but watching tv takes far less energy.
I could be writing, but I’m pretty sure my family’s going to want dinner sometime this evening.
I could be writing, but I need to do those exercises the physiotherapist said would help my back.
I could be writing, but I have to vacuum while Missy is out of the house at preschool.
I could be writing, but first I should check to see if there are any new job listings anywhere near my area of expertise.
I could be writing a blog post, but that means I need to catch up with reading everyone else’s blog posts, and that’ll take ages.
I could be writing in my designated space, but it’s still housing multiple half-unpacked boxes, including the ones for Christmas decorations, which I should think about taking down…
I could be writing, but…I’m out of excuses.
I started an update on Missy months ago, but never seem to finish it. I’ve been emailing my friend Sincerity lately, and she’s investing so much time and energy into her own writing, even considering an MFA. Someone recently asked me what I do for recreation, and I couldn’t come up with an answer. The words “I used to write” keep interrupting my thoughts, taunting and tormenting me.
Don’t call it a new year’s resolution. I never was good at sticking with those. Instead, call it an awareness of an absence in my life. A hole that used to be filled with scribbling and rearranging words on a page. A crisis (?) of identity that stems from more than the excuses that I don’t have the time anymore.
It’s possible to be a mother and a writer. Well, maybe not a “writer,” but certainly someone who writes, at least on occasion. Even when my daughter is still so young, so dependent on me, such a poor sleeper (still) that it keeps me from sleeping, too?
There’s only one way to find out….