Shortly after my second child was born, I used to have this nightmare all the time. Some psycho with a scalpel had my kids and demanded I choose which one to save and which one to sacrifice. And in the inherent weirdness of dreams, I could never see anything about this person except hands on my children. There was dried blood caked in the cracks of the skin and dirt under the fingernails. But I could never see its face. I could never think of a solution. The maniac was always just one step ahead of me, mocking me, wielding pointy objects at my babies with no one to stop him/her/it. It was all very Batman. And awful.
Fortunately, it was also ridiculous. Nobody is going to kidnap my kids and pull a Two-Face on me for kicks and giggles. (It’s even less likely than those crazy nightmares about wolf attacks.) However, the last few weeks have made me look at two things that I love very much and choose which one to save, and which one to sacrifice, at least on a temporary basis.
I love writing. Love, love, love. But I love my family more. So it’s been a hard couple of weeks, with very little editing and almost no actual writing. Without my writing, I quickly go into maniac mode. But without attention and care and food and doctor visits and stuff like that, my family quickly goes into dead mode. So it struck me as kind of an easy decision to make. Writing got the scalpel.
But! Fear not, gentle reader, this is not the end. I prefer to think of it as the moment when everything looks its darkest, when our plucky protagonist seems beaten and the world about to fall under evil dominion forever. But she’s still got a few sneaky tricks up her sleeve. (Which is good, because this wait-it-out thing only gets you so far when evil is trying to dominate the world forever.)
Life seems to be stabilizing. Pretty soon, the excuses well should be drying up. So here’s the deal: my mid-year-life’s-crisis resolutions. I’m currently about halfway through editing my Camp NaNo project. Next Monday, I want to be another quarter through, and the final quarter on the Monday after that. (That’s about three-and-a-half chapters a week- manageable if I hustle.) On each of those weeks, I will write an actual, true-for-reals blog post that isn’t just me talking about my endless parade of personal problems. (Not that you ever get tired of that.) And to make those things possible, I will commit to working at least an hour a day on writing stuff. If I fail in any of these commitments, I want the entirety of the internet to send me their strongest psychic slaps, the combined power of which should make me cross-eyed for at least a year. And I don’t want that.
So. Start prepping that telekinetic battery. If I can hear you popping your knuckles from here, I’m that much more likely to sweat out some writing.