I have completely lost track of what day of my “write every day” project I’m on, which is the bad news, but the good news is that I HAVE been carving out time to write (sadly, working on my novel hardcore means less blogging time, but that’s ok, you were probably kinda sick of me, anyway). The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of writing, momming, revving up for Thanksgiving (except, not really exactly “revving,” since I’m hosting 13 people, have no idea what we’re making or how, and don’t have an actual physical dining table. But details).
Ethan and I were lucky enough to get to go on a little vacation to Hawaii — our first without our kiddo, except for a short trip a year ago to wine country — and though it dredged up all variety of mommy guilt and, at times, caused me massive emotional wreckage, it was really, really good for us. We hadn’t had time to just BE in a long time. We returned with a lot more energy and, frankly, we were just super happy to be home. (Note: when we got back, we endured a couple of days of our sweet 2yo letting us know that he wasn’t terribly happy we’d left him. I think he used the word “no!” more than is legally allowed in this country. But now, we’re all back to our routine and happily playing with Elmo).
On that trip, I read a book that I became immediately obsessed with, to Ethan’s chagrin (I mean he listened to me talk about it NON-STOP, and we were on vacation so he COULDN’T GET AWAY. He didn’t even have the excuse of email check or not being able to hear me over our 2yo’s enthusiastic “trains!” rant.) The book came out a good five years ago, which just shows you how behind the times and everything else I am: Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project. I plan to write a more detailed post on it When I Get a Chance, but for now I’ll just say that thinking about how best to maximize one’s happiness is both dorky and also HELPFUL. Becoming a parent causes everyone to have to pare down and focus on What Really Matters. For me, that’s writing, my family, my friends, and life in a crazy quirky city where I live in an old Victorian with a lotta charm and a lotta stairs. Being a writer is a slog. Whoever said that thing about you only really ARE something if you do it every day had a major point. I need/want to write ALL THE TIME because it’s what I love but also because it’s the only way to actually be a writer. You gotta do it. A lot.
And so — back to it.