Eyes Up.
On Being a Mom Who Writes
Hi guys.
It’s been a long, sneezy spring. I’m back to my spot, sitting here by my April-morning-in-Phoenix kitchen window. Charlie is next to me, eating Pop Tarts and listening to “Toxic” by Britney Spears on the iPad. The iPad that’s signed into my Spotify account, so that the headphones on my head cannot play something not-Britney (no disrespect to the Queen). But I refuse to take them off? Creature of comfort.
Anyway.
I’ve been reading a lot, lately, and writing some, but I’ve been submitting to a few places, and publications don’t want pre-published work (the nerve), so that’s taken my attention away from here. Also, I’ve been working, really slowly, in 10-minute stretches between twinterruptions, on an actual novel. This makes me excited in a way I haven’t been for a very long time.
It’s so fun, and so hard, and talking about it gives me anxiety because how do you explain to your logical, brilliant husband why the first five pages of your novel are make-or-break or the difference between a “plotter” and a “pantser” or why you keep right-click-saving other people’s successful query letters to a desktop folder for inspiration? We’ve been together for 10 years. He’s watched me puke, snore, and push tiny humans from my body, and yet these are the conversations that make me blush…
