Before I had kids, I got a master’s degree in creative writing at San Diego State. I had quit my job as a technical writer not long before, and my husband earned enough that I didn’t need to work. So throughout my degree program, I had all day to write.
You would think having that much time motivated and blessed me. Instead, it felt like I’d been dropped into the middle of a gigantic lake and told to tread water, indefinitely, for three years.
I knew, of course, that my anxiety about this abundance was just the teensiest bit ungrateful and whiny. That didn’t boost my productivity.
I’d get up in the morning and wander around in my pajamas and robe, increasingly cold, and increasingly loath to don real clothing. I dawdled at dishes and fussed over laundry, and finally brushed my teeth at eleven, telling myself I needed to get serious and actually write something.
Eleven. If that hour doesn’t wake you up to your procrastination, nothing will.
Currently, I have about ninety minutes a day to spend writing. I occasionally wonder if I should just spend my allotment inventing time travel. Why settle for meager minutes when, with a little research, I could hop in a DeLorean and get back unlimited hours?
I would be rich with that time I frittered away.
Except. Except looking back, I’m not sure I frittered it….
I’m over at The Mudroom for our month on creativity, inspiration, and imagination. And you don’t even have to time-travel! Won’t you join me there?
How We Treat Our Kids Has Magic In It