I feel guilty.
I feel guilty sitting here writing this when I have so much else that needs to be done. Specifically, I have so many non-writing tasks that need doing. There are dishes to wash and floors to sweep, appointments to get to and calls to make, emails to write and several more to answer, groceries to buy and meals to cook not to mention the children who, while numbering only four, feel like twenty more often than not and require almost constant attention.
But here I am, not doing any of that. Well, I did do one of those things. I attended to the one child who is currently home by providing a snack and plopping her in front of a dinosaur TV show so I could ignore all of my other responsibilities and plop myself in front of my own screen. So, here I sit, writing this and feeling thoroughly guilty about it.
People have told me that I just have to make time to write. They say I need a specific time slot in my day that is purely for writing and nothing else. That way, I can be assured of getting a little guilt-free writing in. Hah. These people, clearly, do not have a posse of unpredictable replicants and an ever-changing schedule of responsibilities. The only time I have free with no immediate demands on myself is during the school week long after all the children are securely asleep. You know, when I feel like my eyelids are going to glue themselves shut because I’m so exhausted. Setting aside a specific time is, at least for me, laughable.
I have to grab my moments whenever they pop up and if that means the floor goes unswept for the day, so be it. If it means the house is filthy, so be it.
I’m lying, of course. So be nothing! I am one of those people who, while not needing my home to be pristine, requires some semblance of order. I have to sweep. I have to tidy. If it is in my line of sight, I have to get that laundry in and those dishes done, those counters wiped and that stovetop scrubbed. I simply cannot sit in a room that has fallen victim to Hurricane Children and Pets and not be completely distracted and racked with guilt for choosing to write over doing something about it.
It’s different if the mess happens while I’m distracted by writing, of course. I don’t know about you, but I can really get into the writing zone and, when that happens, I don’t want to come up for anything. The children get away with a lot during these times. If I don’t see it happening, I can write to my heart’s content and deal with the guilty aftermath later. Right now, unfortunately, I am typing this and glancing between my screen and the fallen broom, the empty box, and the trail of clothing that litter my floor. My floor. My dusty New Mexican floor that, once swept and mopped, will remain dust-free for a whole hour before needing to be swept and mopped all over again.
Oh, the guilt. The guilt of writing instead of doing everything – anything – else.
So, why do it? Why not just take care of those few things before sitting down to write a silly blog post? Why allow the guilt to consume me instead of wiping it away and then sitting down to my writing reward?
Because then I’d have nothing to write about this week.
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