Children and writing

Tuesday 2pm.

House in order.

Children fed.

Dinner… plenty of time to think about that later. Give thanks to microwave defrosting.

Bills paid. All phone calls made. Arrangements made. Etc. etc.

Now. Time to write.

Just check that children are still playing happily in backyard. Check.

Sit at computer. Open up file. Think. Conjure image of scene I’m about to write. (Constipated expression settles onto face.)

But hark, what’s that? Is it a squeal (as in fun), or a scream (as in trouble)?

Scream reaches blood curdling crescendo.

Run to backyard. Pluck child from pool (not too bad so far), see blood, see gaping hole in head (okay, now it’s bad). 

Tuesday 9pm.

Stitches, much scratches, lots of bruises. Not to mention psychological scaring to second child (aka partner in crime). But everyone is thankfully asleep.

Notice computer with blank screen still waiting.

Yeah right! Like all those ‘write every day’ people could scribble anything at this stage. Or could they? I think I should slip into self doubt in the comfort of my own bed.

Ah, yes. That’s better.

Sash

Hinchinbrook Island: Hardcore relaxation

A friend of mine has just come back from Fiji and she’s still floating (metaphorically-speaking) on 10 days of waves lapping the shore just outside their beach hut, water of the perfect colour and temperature, cocktails and smiling, happy people…

A beach holiday sounds perfect. In fact, we’re off to the coast ourselves next week. Except I’m carefully packing bush camping gear, insect repellent, dehydrated food, snake bandages and two changes of undies into a backpack that looks big enough to carry ME.

We’re getting ready to walk the Thorsborne Trail on remote and beautiful Hinchinbrook Island, off the Queensland coast near Townsville. When I say remote, I’m talking about the only way out being by emergency helicopter evacuation – or on foot.

So once the ferry drops you off, you’re on your own. Unless you count the company of estuarine crocs, marine stingers, bush rats that steal your food, and a variety of bitey insects.

I’m sure I’ll appreciate the cloud-covered mountains, fragile heath vegetation, patches of lush rainforest, sweeping sandy beaches and rocky headlands – once I’ve dumped my pack for the day.

Did I mention I won’t be able to have a wine for a week? But there’s bound to be plenty of whine-ing going on! The whole ‘experienced and fit bushwalkers’ thing has me shaking in my sturdy, reliable footwear. What was I thinking?

Next time my intrepid adventurer partner decides we need a holiday, I’m going to be there when he books it. I mean, who wants a holiday involving lapping azure blue water, cocktails and happy, smiling people?

Don’t worry, if I get out alive, I’ll invite you to the (cyber) slide night. Yaye.

Elle.

T-Rex butts: the story of why I’m not writing (yet)

I’ve decided that this year I will give myself a first draft of my novel for Christmas, but am I even nearly there yet? No. I’m too damn tired to finish writing it. I have managed to get the coughing, spluttering children off to school for the first time in what seems like weeks. 

My plan for the day is to stay home, finish some copywriting (cause somebody will pay me for that), finish my homework for the writing course I signed up for, and at some stage hopefully flop onto the bed if I feel like it. Oh, and I’ll have to squeeze in some shopping as well, because every time I go to do it one of the kids starts fading and I have to rush them home and we, therefore, have no food.

Right now though I’m going to finish building a dinosaur for my son (whoever thought giving a seven year old a paper art dinosaur was a good idea needs a flogging). I stayed up till midnight trying to get it done (as I’m so used to not sleeping, I now can’t sleep), but gave up at the tail. It did cross my mind that I could have been writing, but with my hand stuck up a paper T-Rex’s butt it wasn’t all that convenient.

However, now is the moment. It’s time to write. The smell of bleach is wafting through the house (yes Elle, I took your advice and got a cleaner) and I’m now ready to write.

Ah dammit – the cleaner. Now I have them and us guilt. I can’t write… I have real work to do. 

Sash

Self-discipline – shmishipline

Yesterday (in an attempt to get more writing done) I googled self-discipline to see if there was something I could do to speed up the process.

Step one. Announced the article. Acknowledge your own responsibility. Admit that if you sit around doing nothing, you will achieve nothing.

Obviously the author of this article has no family, friends or life in general if they think anyone looking for hints on self-discipline is sitting around doing nothing. In fact, isn’t it usually the case that people looking for help in any sort of area are the ones already doing better than they think, but are just too damn busy to realise? Self-discipline, as described by this particular article, isn’t the thing that stops me getting that first draft written.

I decided to delve further and search for more clues.

Step four. Now act.

Honestly, is this the most woeful advice or what? ‘Now act’ is a limp voiced ‘boo’ to a raging case of hiccups. ‘Now act’ tells me nothing. What it should say is ‘stop googling stuff on the net and start writing’. Now that’s good advice. I should listen to myself more often… or start writing a self-help book instead of a young adult novel. Anyway, I’m off… to write.

Sash.

ABT (Abs, butts and…tears)

My 19 year old daughter joined the gym a few weeks ago and, because I referred her, I got three personal training sessions for $50. Good suggestive selling… “would you like fries with that?”

And now I’ve signed up for a block of 8 sessions with a trainer who has a voice for radio and a body for… well, let’s just stick with the voice.

He also does the Elvis-style ‘thank you very much’ when I manage to squeeze my butt, suck in my abs, keep my knees together (yes, there’s a line there), and maintain correct hip alignment – all while balancing with my shoulders on an exercise ball and executing some ridiculous pelvic manoeuvre.

I’m not sure my multi-tasking skills need the workout…but apparently my abs do. I’m sure these PTs stay awake at night dreaming up new tortures.

The funny thing about a half hour training session is that I feel good after it – even if I swear and curse at the PT all the way through it. He wasn’t even slightly surprised when I told him my dad was ex-Navy.

The only downside (which I’m told is a good sign) is that my protesting abs scream even louder the day after. Um, that’d be today actually.

Just goes to show that all those contracts you make with yourself are a waste of time. I can cheat myself easily. But when someone’s watching, I grit my teeth and keep going…

Well, would any sane person really do a hideous number of convoluted scrunches that target every millimetre of their abs? Left to my own devices I would have stopped at 10 (and that’s probably an exaggeration).

Anyway, by the time bikini weather really strikes, I’ll be ready to grin and bear it.

If not, according to the fashion doyennes, a strategically-draped sarong will cover a multitude of ills. I was thinking more along the lines of a bed-sheet…

Elle

Finding time (under the grime)

Elle:  I was mopping the floor yesterday and, as the floorboards emerged from the grime, I finally lost it. Excuse the mess (sheepish grin). Yes, it’s not in the best state (disapproving look). Well, if I had a clean house, I wouldn’t have to hire YOU (clearly defensive).

I know I’m not the only woman out there who feels like they need to keep the chaos and filth in their house to a manageable level. What worries me is that I’ve started having imaginary conversations with a non-existent cleaner…

Sasha: You should be worried. Your imaginary friend is a cleaner. Do you realise what a loser that makes you sound? Get a cleaner… a real one.

E: Harsh but fair. I’m just not sure that running around in a guilty fit cleaning before a cleaner gets here is going to be useful.

S: No, but it is an interesting concept. I could tell myself I’m going to get a cleaner and see if it makes me clean the house. Could be a whole new phase in my house-wifely career… wouldn’t help the writing though.

E: And that’s the point. We have to outsource the cleaning (and anything else we can think of) so we can get more time to write! I’m game if you are, and it’s not like I’m a cleaner-virgin. I think the last one took offence at the “housework makes you ugly” sign on the kitchen wall…

S:  Then I probably should take down my “Dull women have immaculate houses” fridge-magnet.

E: I might make up a new fridge magnet: “My imaginary friend is a cleaner”.

S: I don’t think fridge magnets count as creative writing…