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Browsing Tag: writer mom

Settling In

I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for the past five minutes, trying to think of something to say. It happens a lot. The blank stares. The empty right brain. I’m outside on the back deck right now, squinting through the sunshine at the computer and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. (David’s gone for work, so I had to make my own coffee this morning. It’s horrible. I make terrible coffee.) Quinlan was outside with me earlier this morning–she, playing with slime, me, eating a bowl of Golden Grahams–and as we watched a distant storm cloud dump rain over our town, she asked me if I’m still an author even though I haven’t been publishing any more books. Ouch. It’s 10:34 a.m. As I sit on the deck, my children–who can now all feed and dress themselves, make their own beds (hallelujah!), brush their own teeth, and do their daily chores with a simple reminder of “remember to go through your morning routine!,” because thank you, Lord, it does get easier–rest on…

I Mean, They Have Wine There, Too

I’m supposed to be on my way to Albuquerque tomorrow, for my organization‘s writers’ retreat. Workshops, writing time, discussion groups. Friends who have brains like mine. Friends who are on social media right now talking with each other as they pack, excited to meet up with a blueberry margarita in hand before the (awesome, fun, hard, rewarding) work begins. But.I put off getting my plane tickets for a couple of reasons, and by the time I sat down to get them, the prices were so high I couldn’t bring myself to book the flights. (Note: never, ever pay off the last credit card and then make a solemn, empathic family vow to stop using them the same year you book a spot at a great writer’s retreat. Ain’t nobody got time for that kind of fiscal responsibility.) If you’d guess that I’m a little bummed about this, you’d be a good guesser. Or you saw me crying. Either or.  Now.I sit here at the kitchen table, surrounded by notes and index cards and lots and lots of words in my head…

See What I Did There

I’m in my office, sorting through some manuscript notes. Cian walks in with a handful of toy dinosaurs, dumps them onto the carpet, and sidles up beside me, draping himself against my side in the way little children do, so that he’s kind of Velcro’d against me, one whole seam of his body zipped up against mine.“What are you doo-ing?” he asks. His hand is resting on my shoulder and he looks at my computer. “I’m working, buddy,” I answer. “But where’s Daddy?” “Daddy’s in his office. He’s working, too.” “But he can’t work. Or you can’t work. You have to work one at a time, not to-gev-er.” “I understand, Key, but sometimes we both have to work at the same time.” I worry for a second, concerned that he’s going to have a hard time adjusting to our new, back-to-the-usual routine. It’s enough to make me completely lose my concentration.I move out to the deck. It&#8217…