Listen, I am over here trying to make time to write. Thirty minutes one day, 22 minutes the next, eight minutes before work. F*cking eight. I can barely write a Tweet in that time! Even 30 minutes is pushing it if I want to write something that doesn’t resemble a piece of crap.
Part of the problem is that I work in an office. Like a real job. Even though it’s “only” part-time, I still have to get up at a specific time (newborn baby early) and I still have to go to sleep at a certain hour (grandparents’ bedtime) four days a week.
And I work out…because I don’t want to feel or look like those amoebas in a Gary Larson comic.
Or, on second thought actually, any character in a Gary Larson comic:
And I’m also a mom. And a wife. And I’m the person who does the dishes and the laundry 95% of the time. And I’m also the person who takes the 5 year old to practice and lessons and doctor appointments. I volunteer in his class. Really, all the same things most moms do. So, you know, it’s a lot of…stuff that’s the opposite of what I’d rather be doing.
Mostly, what I’m at odds with is the writing and the exercising. First, they are mutually exclusive. One requires I move my arms and legs around. The other is me just sitting on my ass. Second, I really only have time for one of them, and one of them (I think you know which one) is more appealing than the other.
It’s classic Three’s Company. Let’s pretend I’m Jack. Exercising is Chrissy. And writing is Janet, who just got left behind on a hideous orange and brown sofa.
A Twitter friend suggested I read Haruki Murakami’s book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I like it, but I’m not very encouraged so far since–spoiler alert–he quits his business so he can devote his days to writing full time. And also this is 30 years ago.
And also that’s not an option for me.
But I’ll keep reading. Not that I have time to.