I am a writer. There. I said it. However, when I hear that someone is a writer, I envision them in their pj’s, a cup of hot coffee in hand and crumpled paper thrown about their house as they fight the muse all day long to get the words on to the page. This sort of lifestyle (one I think would be WONDERFUL) is not something that I can currently afford to live. Bills still need to be paid. Tires need to be replaced. Kids need to go to school. So, I must work a REAL job. Several, as it turns out.
Most days, I find at least a few hours a day to write. I work from home 20-30 hours a week as the Director of Religious Exploration for the Unitarian Universalist Church of Belfast, after I’ve shipped the children off to school. Normally, my best writing time is right after they’ve left and the house echos with silence. I’d get a few hours in, break for brunch then work my paid job. This was a system that was working fabulously well. Then I agreed to cover for someone at the job I used to have as a secretary. For two weeks. Two weeks. This is the second week of working and let me just say, it had better be the last.
During this time, nothing is getting done. Not the laundry. Not the dishes. Not the sweeping, and regrettably, not the writing. And it’s stressing me out. My characters are screaming at me, haunting my dreams at night, begging to come out and play. One more week, I tell them. One more week.