Time and I have a convoluted relationship. It doesn’t help that time masquerades as linear when really…
Well, you’ll have to chat with Einstein (or Ruth Feldman) about true nature of time. All I will say here is that time is not what we think it is. Or actually, time is precisely what we think it is. If I’m sure there is “no” time, then I am rushed and overloaded. If I am convinced that time is bountiful then space opens.
But let me get to the point before I topple into metaphorical chaos. Writing takes time. Books get written word by word. Those brave souls that participated in National Novel Writing Month committed their Novembers to throwing down 50K of those suckers. To “win” at NaNoWriMo, they had to clear the decks and “make time” for writing almost every single day. (Bravo to each and every one that did it!)
True confessions: I am NOT a NaNoWriMo-er. I do not have the constitution for it.
I am a crack writer.
No, I’m not taking after Toronto’s crack-smoking mayor.
What I mean is that no time is too small for me to get something done. I can’t chain myself to the idea that if I don’t have a 2-3 hour window of time then there’s no point in writing. I certainly prefer large blocks of time, but often they are not there. Life has this pesky habit of intervening so I grab what time I can.
The week before Thanksgiving, I spent the majority of every day building a library in my house. (This is TERRIBLY exciting and BEAUTIFUL and pictures will be coming, I promise!) However, in the midst of construction, I was also scrambling to finish a novel revision for my agent and make headway on the nonfiction book that is due in January.
I got up early and nabbed 45 minutes before the kids woke up. I used the hour between when they got on the bus and my fab library builder helper showed up. I used the 30 minutes of daughter’s piano lesson and the time waiting in the car by my son’s soccer field. I still went for my runs in Forest Park (because there is no better way to break through knotty revision issues). I still made food for my people. Life continued, and I got the work done.
The novel is in the hands of my agent. The nonfiction book is queued up for another revision. The library is almost, almost done.
It’s Monday morning.
Time is my boundless ally.
I’ve got coffee, and I’m writing in the cracks.