Whoever the Gods are of work decided a long time ago that in the 24 hour day, we would spend 8 hours sleeping, 8 hours working, and 8 hours to do whatever we want. That seems reasonable, when you look at it this way with the numbers all nicely cut and divvied up like that. We know that’s not how life is, though. You get caught up making dinner, cleaning something, folding something, driving somewhere. So, you’re not REALLY doing “whatever you want” but more “what has to be done.”
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If you’re like me, you’re a writer who is trying to figure out how to have that time we used to have before children. Which means, you, like me, have a small human in your house. You clearly remember drinking coffee alone in a quiet house with the day spread out before you. Perhaps some writing before work? Maybe some yoga and herbal tea? Light housework? Nothing too strenuous, of course. Just unload the dishes or something. You know. Get ahead of the day. Or, maybe, if all work is done, sneak in a horror movie while there’s plenty of safe sunlight to keep the monsters away.
I have news for you.
It’s gone. Go ahead and drag out the funeral and the grieving process if you must, but it’s way, way gone.
I don’t believe in ‘stolen moments’ because I do believe that you, writer/reader/painter have the right to continue with your craft, whatever it may be. Just, go ahead and understand that no, no it will never be the same way again. You’re the parent now. It’s YOUR job to make sure your child now gets that precious alone time so they can discover who they are and what they want to be. Your parents provided you with that umbrella, now it’s your turn to protect your babies from the rain of responsibilities.
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So, what’s to be done? We can’t add more hours into the day.
1) Trade in your sleep. When I was working a full-time job and pregnant, I was still waking up early enough to get in my 1-3 thousand words. It wasn’t perfect. I was pregnant after all, and for those of you who listen to the podcast, you’ll recall I’ve mentioned that while I was pregnant, I was way, way dumb. I didn’t remember anything and I was easily distracted. I was happy, though, and never sick. I started too many (4? I think?) books and I can’t tell you why I did that. But, I did keep writing. Everyday. Now, this stopped when my son was born and I started to suffer terribly from PPA and PPD. I stayed in bed curled around my infant for as long as I possibly could. Until I needed water. Until I wanted to walk. The thing? This was my choice. And I own it. I stopped writing because I chose to. I had the time, and I didn’t use it. Being with my child in that space was more important. Welcome to parenthood. They come first, second, third, however many numbers there are, they get them all. But, if you’re desperate for some writing and your child is a good sleeper, well, you can get a little less snooze time to get that quiet space. It’s there, you just need to do some sacrificing to the God of Z’s.
2) Talk to your partner. This is the other, best option. You’re a team, right? And it’s important for the team to function as such. I don’t think my husband and I ever parent together. We’re always trading off. Someone takes Jackson while the other one does a chore, makes dinner, takes a sanity break. My husband doesn’t read everything I write, but he will guard my closed office door for as long as he can. I, in turn, make sure I don’t stay behind that closed door for too long. I get in, and get it done. I write nothing without him helping somehow. One day, I’ll figure out how to thank him.
3) Maybe you need to write differently. One of the best books I have ever read was written in snippets because the writer had a new son and all she could do was write a little here and there. It was a new form for her, too. ALL THE TRUTH THAT’S IN ME will forever be my parenting bible, because if she could write something so fantastically good while juggling a new baby and all the lovely post-partum stuff that comes with it, well, then I have about zero room to complain ever.
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4) If there isn’t a space, make one. A good friend of mine is writing in her closet at night after her 4 babies have gone to be. She’s tired. She’s frustrated at being in a literal closet, but she gets it done. She made a space because her coffee house and gym closed. Stopping just isn’t an option.
5) Write with people! Currently, I’m zooming with friends. I’m not quite as consistent as they are because I am still in Toddler Land. Toddler Land means I work at night so I can spend more time with him while he’s awake. But, on my nights off, I try to write creatively. Ass in chair. One word after another. It’s nice with people, because I feel like I get a social bone itched, too.
6) Be flexible. It’s a balancing act. Life doesn’t adhere to a schedule, so the more you panic-nail down your straw house of “rules” the more frustrated you’ll get. Make like Elsa, and let it go, best you can. For what is appropriate to your family, of course.
Now, I don’t mean for this to sound too doomsday. I also don’t think that any of the more extreme practices should be the ultimate fix. Really, I’m writing this hoping that this helps you keep writing while your tiny is tiny, because before we know it, they will be too big to care about what we’re doing.
Come to think of it, time management is one of the things I hear get asked about most on panels. Everyone is hoping for that ultimate, final, smart answer. That ah-ha! moment, right?
You’re not alone. Tananarive Duo took 13 years off to raise her son. She’s awarded, she’s known, and she rocks. Stephen Graham Jones tends to pump out a book every three months. After his son was born, it took him 10 months to complete a book. He wrote late at night, in a leaned back chair, with his son asleep on his chest. Paul Tremblay writes wherever, whenever, he can. He wrote HEAD FULL OF GHOST (mostly? I think) at his kid’s basketball practices. Joyce Carol Oats decided she wanted to be a writer to stay at home with her children. She didn’t just keep writing, no, she had to learn how to do it, and then keep it up.
The answer, honestly, is if you work an 8 hour day, then you have 16 hours left to play with. That’s the truth. How to go about the shuffle, well, one size does not fit all.
Also: I’m writing this instead of cleaning my house. And I’m writing this instead of working on a new novella. What I’m trying to say is, I’m still figuring this out too. What I’m learning is that it is possible to still be you while learning how to be a parent. And yes. It is important. It is necessary, to be you. It’s just not the first, primary concern anymore.
There’s a reason why I have this view.
I grew up in a house that was filled with everything I could ever need. My dolls had their own room. I had baby ducks to follow me around. I had all of the books in large cabinets. I had all of this because my dad used his writing skills to work for an advertising and marketing firm.
He creatively wrote on one of the first ever lap-tops. It was a big, hulking, bulky thing that needed its own briefcase. He took that with him to work and he wrote book after book after book on his lunch breaks.
After work, he would drive home from Los Angeles to Ventura. That’s about an hour commute. He’d stop at the gym to get a quick swim in, and then he’d come home. When I was little, I remember him bursting through the door. He’d set that huge laptop down, and then—with his arms up in the air—he would shout: “run and scream!” (My dad has always found horror movies funny.)
Wherever I was in the house, I would then scream, and run. Together, we would run and scream until it ended with him tossing me onto some bed or couch, and then he would dramatically collapse and proclaim I was too fast for him, that I had won. When I got older, he’d come home a little quieter, but he worked to make a connection. He taught me poker and chess. He coached every team I ever played for until I begged him, in high school, to please, please don’t coach Track. Not this one, Dad. He sort of listened to me. He volunteered to work home meets and, don’t tell him, but I was happy to see him. It wasn’t sports without Dad.
And then, after that, after I was in bed, he would work for his second job. From 8 pm to 11 pm. I don’t remember him not working at night.
This is who I grew up watching. This is who I need to somehow be for my son. And yeah, it’s fucking hard. My dad set an impossible example. A superman standard.
Now? Now he’s got a three-book deal and an agent. My hope, my quiet prayer is that he gets everything he wanted. Everything he never told me he wanted because instead, he was rocking me to sleep. Instead of writing, he was teaching me to swim. His few hours of free time? He gave those to me. And the thing? I know he’d do it again, every day, forever.
I’m not working to have ME time. I’m not working to parent less. I’m working to show my son that with a strategy, with love, you can do it all. But—and this is the important part—you can’t spend time bitching about it. Fix it. Figure it out. I’m learning that being a parent doesn’t mean losing who YOU are. It means being the biggest, best umbrella you can be, whatever that looks like. It means showing your child not just how to succeed, but how YOU succeed.
STFU and write, bitches. Go in your closet, if you must.
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