Tuesdays are generally considered “blah” days. Nothing ever happens on a Tuesday. People are tired and cranky, their adrenaline already spent on the grueling demands of the day before. The weekend seems so far away. No wonder restaurants have “Kids Eat Free on Tuesday” posters plastered all over their front windows. Because business is agonizingly slow on a “blah” day.
I love Tuesdays. I love knowing I’ve already gotten my grocery shopping done, how I have the option of staying home all day long in my pjs and working on my WIP, and how I can look forward to our Library Escapade, when I take the kids to our local library and come home with thirty different books and DVDs.
I love knowing the week is far from over, because as much as I love spending the weekend with the whole family and getting to eat out (which means I don’t have to cook, yay!), I also long for the quiet days when nothing is expected of me. Of course it’s never truly quiet at home, not when there’s a three-year-old boomerang who keeps coming back to me for drinks, snacks, potty, hugs, and kisses (the latter two I don’t mind getting over and over again).
I love having the time to sit and write. My brain’s in constant motion: always shooting off idea tangents, worrying about what to make for dinner, wondering why it’s suddenly so quiet in the next room where the human boomerang is, and thinking of scenes for my story all at the same time. It’s ADHD inside. On the outside, I’m the picture of calm. So calm in fact I got an award in one of my college classes as the “Most Calm Person in the Room”. To this day, I’m not sure if that was complimentary—not if it meant I was practically comatose in class. *grin*
When I write, it’s like a shaft has been opened in my head letting out the pressure that comes from having an overcrowded mind. It’s relief. It’s my meditation sans painful yoga pose. A chance to connect with that self—the unlabeled self. Not the wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend that I am to others. And I greet it like an old friend. Hey you, I recognize you. It’s been awhile.
When I write I am also faced with fears. For years I kept it to myself. I wrote in journals. I had imaginary conversations in my head with the characters I write about. I didn’t let anyone read what I wrote because I was afraid. I didn’t dare tell anyone my dream of becoming a writer. Until one day, while hanging out in the kitchen with my kids, my seven-year-old asked her little brother what he wants to be when he grows up. His answer: a monster, a fireman, and a zombie. We laughed. Then he turned to me and asked in that sweet innocent voice: What do you want to be when you grow up, Mommy?
A writer, I said. I want to write books. And guess what? The world did not cave in, nobody laughed at me, and my kids nodded their pretty little heads like this was a totally cool answer.
So here I am. Pursuing my ink-and-paper dreams. Saying that out loud is scary, but knowing I’m still standing up is enough to keep me going.