Holy Crap

I sat down to do some study tonight.

Text books opened, pen dutifully poised. I worked out my study plan for the weak – writing exercises, reading and an assignment to do by the end of the week. Not a difficult one, but still… going to require some effort. And some time. This week’s focus has been on sensory perception, observational writing and being inspired by the everyday – developing the regular, often mundane but persistent habit of writing, writing, writing. About everything you see and feel and taste and hear. Building up a store house of images and metaphors and observations to draw on in your more formal writing endeavours.

And as I was reading and thinking I had a Holy Crap moment. It went like this:

“Holy Crap. If I want to be a writer I’m going to have to fricking well write aren’t I.”

and then

“I mean (holy crap) that I’m going to have to develop a lifestyle of writing. Of having a pen surgically attached to my fingers and scribbling my flawless and whimsical observations of life, it’s people and all it’s many colours and flavours at every given opportunity”.

and then

“How the Holy Crap am I supposed to do that with Kai???! He doesn’t even let me do a wee in peace!”

There then proceeded a period of general wailing and “Holy Crap”s and “I’m never going to be good enough”s which I won’t bore you with…

But the point stands. I am going to have to write aren’t I? Or at least, write more.

I am not ashamed to admit it. There is a teeny (ok, not so teeny) part of me that is so in love with the idea of writing, of filling notebook after notebook with long, sweeping prose, that I would happily wish for all the housework to disappear, for Kai to suddenly become completely self-sufficiant and start sleeping 12 hour stints, for Ant to not need me in any way shape or form and for the rest of my friends and family to make no demands on whatsoever. Ever again. Just so I can write. Write with no constraints and no obstacles.

I imagine that that must be what ‘real’ writers lives must be like.

Which is stupid. Obviously.

Because writer’s are people. With lives and responsibilities and a demanding toddlers who spend most of their day either posting things, or trying to insert themselves, through the cat flap and screaming loudly and persistently when you refuse to hold them up to play the ‘light switch game’ for the millionth time that day (On! Off! On! Off!). At least, I assume ‘real’ writers have all these things to contend with… or some of them in any case.

Writer’s must have other jobs and families and small kitchens that are impossible to clean. And they still manage to write somehow, and, more importantly, to have successful writing careers.

So I’m just going to have to find a way. A way to free up more time and space for committing to the one thing that finally feels completely right to me, and is what I KNOW I need to be doing right now. I think it’s going to take some compromise and so creative thinking (and possibly some kind of Dictaphone) but dammit I am going to figure this out.

I have to.

Footnote: I was watching Tim Minchin in between writing this post. He seemed like an appropriate Holy Crap image. Love you Tim.

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