She's a stay-at-home mom and her son is Lily's age. The fact that she was able to complete a novel while mom-ing is both amazing and inspiring to me. I asked her how she did it -- and she said she's been telling people she just neglected her son for six months (he looked very well tended to, so she might have been exaggerating). She then went on to say she just had a bunch of characters who wouldn't leave her alone (hmm ... is this a common problem among mothers?) and now, 65,000 words later, she has a book.
I've been thinking about my novel an awful lot lately. Thinking being the operative word. I have a mental block when it comes to actually opening the story file and putting all of that thinking to work. I'm worried that my characters aren't as noisy as they used to be. Or that the story is going somewhere else that would negate the work I've already done.
Also, I'm tired. Right now, for instance, my eyes are open just wide enough to allow me to see the computer screen. It feels like there are dumb bells dangling from my eyelids.
Before I had children I never knew how much I loved my bed. And I'm not even being cute here. I mean I really, really love my bed and the promise of sleep that it brings every night. Every night when I flop my head on my pillow I let out a sigh as heavy as the day is hectic (read: very heavy).
Of course, these days Jovie does not have the same appreciation for sleep. We have only ourselves to blame for the fact that she hasn't learned to celebrate a long night of sleep. I should be letting her cry it on out when she wakes up at 1 a.m. expecting something to eat, but because she shares a room with us the persistent and pathetic wailing in combination with my desperation to go back to sleep means she wins every time.
It won't be like this forever though. At least that's what I tell myself.