The Monster Within

I recently saw on a history program that Frederick Douglass had a “thinking cabin” the family called The Growlery. One can imagine him stomping straight to his cabin at the end of a hard day in politics and growling away at the walls. He was like so many brilliant creators who have been known for their tempers, especially when they needed privacy to create.

So I was not surprised to hear this, but I was incredibly jealous. A cabin to go to, and people leave you alone.

Sometimes I want to scream, “LET ME WRITE!” but my daughter keeps bringing these absolutely delightful foster grandchildren to the house and they can’t be denied. As Bluey teaches us, there will always be another time to watch a game…or to do the actually important things Mum and Dad must do. Ok not really a fan of the spoilt children show, but I do see that there is only a short window of time for toddlers and it must be cherished. Though I did admit the other day I chose writing time over Grandma time.

And I actually feel a bit bad about that choice on that day, because so far, the folks who promise to read my Chapter 1 (I never ask for more–let Chapter 1 do the heavy lifting of enticing readers if it can), never offer any feedback. Except my sister, who decided to start editing it and then got too busy. Which is probably for the best.

But as I also mentioned in my Writing in Absentia post, I have a whole 17th century universe in my head. It is an accumulation of researched facts that begs to be shared, and a budding love story, a boy in prison, changes in dynasties, and new worlds, and so on! GAH!

I did have a desk once. As the primary income earner working remotely, there was always an office somewhere as we flipped our way through houses. But then I retired and I gave away my desk. Instead I’m writing from the comfort of my recliner with a lap desk. The cat tries to worm her way in between me and my laptop, but we have developed a deal where she gets her attention at 4pm. Or did.

And I say these things in past tense because now I have stopped writing. Period. I am attempting to shed myself of my own love story with my book and my characters, and focus instead on the children and on spending my time with my husband (who to be fair just had a scary thing happen with his heart). And let me be clear for your commiseration that spending time with the hubby means endless hours of television or running errands. Frederick Douglass would have gone mad.

The creators of Bluey are right; I will not end my days wishing I’d written more. Well…unless somebody reads my Chapter 1 and says, “Oh my gosh this is an incredible story–when are you going to finish it?!” Which might be my dream or my nightmare at this point.

I must tell you, though, that there is a monster within me, and it’s bloody well uptight.