I write for a living. It’s an occupation that can make it hard to convincingly complain about a stressful day. I’ve tried. The results have been mixed, but in general, most are unimpressed.
At the end of a challenging day, I somehow find the strength to put a meal together for my family about an hour or so late. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes and the counter is crowded.
At this point, my husband will walk in and be astounded dinner isn’t ready and waiting.
“What did you do today?” he’ll ask, clearly baffled as he looks around at all of the evidence that shows what I didn’t do today.
“I worked,” I’ll say.
“So you decided to get a real job did you?”
According to my husband, I’ve never had a “real job.”
I don’t get my hands dirty enough. I don’t use enough muscles. The only time my work causes me to sweat is a hot day in July when the air conditioning isn’t working.
But, he will admit, that he thinks it’s great how I’ve conned people into paying me for not really working.
Now, I don’t want to upset anyone like my mother (Hi, Mom!). My husband does know that I write and he is proud of what I do. He knows he could never do it. He just doesn’t understand how it can tire me out. After all, I’m just sitting in a chair in front of a computer. How many calories can I burn doing that?
He isn’t the only one that doesn’t understand. As I sit in my office struggling to find the right way to string the words, I’m interrupted. My mother is astounded when she calls and I’m not very talkative. “Are you typing?” she’ll ask. “You didn’t hear a word I said did you?” “Of course I did. What did you say?” You see I have trouble carrying on a conversation when my words are finally coming together. Some days she quickly realizes this. Others, she talks on and on for minutes and the conversation ends with me being hard pressed to say what she told me. (Sorry, Mom.)
My children have also found themselves victims of my distracted writing self. As I type, they come up to my side to ask for requests. They are often answered by “no” and “leave me alone.” But they are young, so they persist. Recently, my oldest daughter did this. She came to my office with a simple request for paper. I brushed her off, but eventually I coughed up the paper with the hopes to distract her long enough that I could finish the article I was working on. It didn’t work. She came back, asking me to fold the paper. I launched into a lecture about respect and writing while I folded the paper in half. “Thanks Mom,” she said, ignoring my lecture. “Can you staple it too? Three times.” So, I sigh quietly as I staple the sides of the paper and hand it back to her.
“Now go,” I say, shooing her out of my office. “I’m working.”
She goes. She leaves me alone for a half hour before she finally returns with a smile on her face spreading from ear to ear.
“Mom, Mom,” she yells excitedly in my ear.
I grumble as I look away from my article. Looked way from the words that are still struggling to be formed on the screen.
“I wrote a book about a giant mouse and a little cat. Want to read it?”
I take the finished book from her. Even the graphics are done. OK, so they are drawings by a almost 7-year-old, but they aren’t bad.
“The Big Mouse that Ate the Little Cat” by Autumn Sherwood. I read the book to her.
She asks if I’m done with mine. No. Not yet. It seems others can write and publish complete books quicker than I can write an article.
She shrugs her shoulders and runs off to write another book.
I stare back at my computer screen and my half-finished article. My eyes slide over to her completed book sitting accusingly on my desk.
How am I ever going to convince my family that writing really is tough stuff?
