My writing is like laundry. It is done in snatches, between naps and meals where children are confined to high chairs and distracted by food. They are brief windows, where if I’m lucky I’ll get in a few complete sentences perhaps even a profound phrase or two. Then the call comes; they are ready to get up, the meal is finished and the toddler’s dishes clatter to the floor while the preschooler whines, either for more or different food. I do battle with the messy hands and grimy faces, stepping over the aftermath smeared on the kitchen floor.
They play happily together for three, minutes, perhaps five, before the fight breaks out and I must intercede. My writing is in the in betweens. Pouring out my soul in a blog post, a facebook status; tackling the next devotional entry in my Lenten project or looking over my work in progress novel, wondering where to go next. During naps, between bedtimes, when I just can’t take the screaming anymore and I stand typing in the middle of my living room while chaos rages around me, just to get the thoughts down before there are swept away.
To have a time, a quiet corner, a place of my own where my creativity can reign is a dream, but for now I scrap and scratch, working in the in betweens.