There’s a song by the Indigo Girls I loved when I was a teen, with a line, “Unforgiving, the choice still is, the language or the kiss.” I interpreted the words to mean that in life, we have to sacrifice one thing to have something else. Hm.
Here I find myself, a new mother. True to the cliché, I live a sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, frazzled existence. I’m lucky if I get myself and Daniel dressed and fed each day. So how—oh how—can I find time to write? Yes, I’m writing blog posts. And no, I don’t discount that. But what about the fiction? What about my first novel, sitting in my computer, waiting to be sold? What about my second novel, haunting my dreams, begging to be engendered? It feels like I’ve abandoned my first two children, for the third, human one.
|Did someone say wave?|
My dad suggested that perhaps I’m trying to do too much. Moi? But of course he’s right. Why is it so hard to accept that my current reality involves very little sleep and a consuming little creature? Can’t I try to trust that the novels will still be there when I can get back to them? And that I’ll be okay if I have to stay away a little longer?
Perhaps if I analogize acceptance to surfing it will sink in: I can battle the ocean or I can ride the wave. For now, mothering Daniel takes most of my energy. If I can enjoy that ride, then maybe I can paddle back out calmly, in-between sets, and catch the fiction wave when it arrives.