Somehow, despite all the chaos that is my life these days (ie the issues with E's teeth in January, her hospitalization in February, two IEPs that need re-visioning, etc.) I managed to write 10 pages in 24 hours. Ten!
Nowhere near editor ready, said pages are more in the vein of what Anne Lamott refers to as the "shitty first draft." But here's the thing: those 10 pages represent forward progress, and proof that I can still write.
I've been doubting myself a lot lately. My ability to write. My ability to edit. My ability to be anything other than caregiver and mother.
No surprise where these feelings originated. E's health. It's impacted our family on many levels, and my writing on multiple. But in a strange and twisted way our unpredictable schedule had become predictable.
In a way, it's like we've been the victims of a series of earthquakes. Each time we try to assess our situation in hopes of finding a new sense of normal, another aftershock comes...in the form of a new symptom, doctor, test, or challenge at home or at school.
I'm certain it doesn't help that that in the aftermath of E's hospitalization and all the docs we must now see (she's up to 11 who see her regularly), I'm on point for coordinating and managing E's care. Nor does it help that because of this shift in responsibilities I've experienced first hand the very real, very palpable erosion of my uninterrupted writing time.
In recent weeks, I've been lucky enough to squeeze in a couple hours of writing time every now and again. Sometimes all this means is that I've succeeded in staring at the screen long enough to pluck out a paragraph or two.
I've been trying to honor the process. I've been trying to remind myself that even if all I have time to produce is one lousy paragraph, that lousy paragraph had to be written in order to get to the good stuff.
Those 10 pages I produced earlier this week? They're the good stuff. My next challenge is to figure out what needs to happen in order to write more.