My Writing Process: There’s An Octopus On My Ceiling

And so, I’ve been thinking about giving you guys a peek into my writing process, but I don’t have one.

Here’s yet another piece I wrote, a few weeks ago now, about not writing.  I’m re-posting it here, because I wrote it, and it’s the truth.

July 26th, 2018.

The day before yesterday, I stayed up til 1 a.m. to write and hit publish on a piece for the #30Posts30Days challenge. (On Medium. The challenge was started by Frank McKinley.)

That day I’d taken the kid to the library where I wished there was a summer reading program for adults.

We came home and played a rousing game of Snap and generally, um, enjoyed each other’s company.

I wrote my words after she went to bed, and then Neil went to bed.

I pretended I was 20 again, could close my door and blast my music. It would seem I can do neither of those things any more. At least between the hours of 9am-12am.

But on Tuesday into Wendnesday, I was in the zone. I wrote my words and went to post them. But we had no internet connection. The boonies had reared their little green heads. Or something.

The air went blue. I turned it off and on again, and it worked.

I debated writing more words, but I went to bed, promising myself I’d write again tomorrow. Technically today. Which was yesterday now. Still with me?

But I didn’t. And I hated myself for it. Then I watched my kid dance at a summer class, had dinner outside and then watched some true-crime on Netflix with Neil. I thought about getting up and slinging some words after that. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel any better about myself and I didn’t sleep, but I didn’t get up and write either.

Today began much as any other day, Isla diving into our bed and demanding cartoons, Neil making me coffee and then closing the home-office door to engineer software.

As he shuts the door, he tells Isla the same thing every day.

‘Play with Mummy.’

That’s me.

Which is great and beautiful and wonderful, I know how amazing she is, how lucky I am. Looking at her makes me want to cry tears of joy and then stand on my head and spit nickels. I know.

But I’m tired even before I get out of bed these days, the cartoons are loud, the view is the same, and I’m always hungry for a breakfast bagel 4,000 miles away. They don’t deliver.

Today, before I could write my words, we played Jenga which was fun, hide-and-seek which was less fun (I suck at hiding), and Power Rangers (because that’s still a thing).

My PA painted our nails, not as glamorous as it sounds. Doing my nails reminds me of when I was a kid and my Nana gave me a coat of clear polish while watching Dallas and complaining about WASPs.  (I’m now thinking that was Dynasty.  But both work.)

Back to today, I cleaned Play-dough out of the treads of Isla’s shoes, using a colored pencil.

After Isla walked in on me in the bathroom, I came back into the kitchen and there was a purple octopus clinging to the ceiling. True story.

‘How’d that get up there?’

‘I threw it.’

I shrugged and took a picture. It is 2018, after all.

I wanted to grab a notebook and remember this. Isla poking at the ceiling with a broomstick, me saying ‘We don’t need a skylight.’

I found a notebook in the laundry basket, later.

But I’ll remember it anyway.

How the smell of polish brings back my Nana’s voice and the sun at dusk brings my Grandma to the table. How now that I’ve said it it’s like they are here with me, wondering what tomorrow’s words will be.

July 27th, 2018.

No words written.  I felt that I let myself down again.  That I’d let down the 7 year-old kid who wrote in crayon, or the 25 year-old kid who did laps around her room before she worked on her novel.

I felt like I let down the grandmothers who I still write every word for.  Because I wish they could read them.

I sat down to write my words, and then I stopped Isla from flooding the bathroom.

She had gone quiet.  And we know that’s never good.

‘Hi, Mumma.  You look pretty today, my favorite Mummy.’

‘Thanks, baby.  Why are you blocking the doorway?’

She had mixed toothpaste, and soap, and glitter, and was stuffing the goop into a purple, plastic penguin.

‘Mumma, LET’S SEE IF PENGUINS FART GLITTER!’

Spoiler alert: they don’t.  That’s unicorns.  It’s been scientifically proven.  By Isla.

So, no words written, but I learned something.

I tried to write the next day.  In the dark at the movies.  Instead I watched Isla dance in the aisles and pretend Mama Mia was a concert.  That was fun.

And the next day, amongst the batter for my Dad’s birthday cupcakes.

Saturday rolls around. Neil takes Isla to an inaccessible event.  But she got to feed horses.  And I don’t like horses, so that was fine.

I moved my laptop into the living room so I could write while watching Judge Judy.  Some writing happened.

Yesterday, I tried to write.  But we FaceTimed with my Mom.  That was fun.  Until Isla mooned the screen and took a picture of it.  By sitting on the phone.  Sorry, Ma.  She may have also sent the evidence to my best friend.  Isla pushes a lot of buttons.

One of the reasons I don’t have my own door to shut is because I’m no longer getting paid for my writing.  My blogging sometimes, but not my writing.

Neil suggests that the point of the laptop is that I can work anywhere.  Amongst the glitter and the sugar highs and cartoons and the moons.

I shall try.