I am in the thick of trying to finish my book by my deadline in April, and recreating the exhilarating experience I had while writing the first 25,000 words in Paris is a bit like jamming a square peg into a round hole. First, I’m in Utah. I know, roll your eyes and tell me to stop complaining. Yes, we have five National Parks in this state but it’s not like I’m waking up in a glamping tent, strolling up to a hammock swung across Delicate Arch and writing sentences as the sun comes up over the glowing red dirt of the horizon. No! I’m in my house. My often cluttered house that is littered with random dirty socks, empty tampon boxes, and CUPS. CUPS ARE EVERYWHERE.
Which brings me to number two: keeping my children alive. In Paris I had no one to worry about except myself. Here? There is math homework and late night talks that last long past bedtime because eighth grade boys are choosing to act like eighth grade boys and finding the right way to communicate that THEY ARE THE SCOURGE OF THE EARTH without actually using those words is not really a challenge I ever considered I’d have to take on when I decided to procreate.
Daily life is filled with so much unpredictability and an unrelenting rhythm that trying to maintain a steady pace and a coherent narrative over the course of 80,000-100,000 words has me like:
