I find myself deep in the process of writing a book. Twelve chapters completed and twelve more to go, with a looming deadline of just two weeks. As I sit here, I can’t help but feel that my approach to writing might be flawed. Here’s how my day typically unfolds:
First, I walk the dog, prepare school lunches, pack bags, dress the kids, and drive them to school. Once I return home, I open my laptop and manage to jot down a single sentence. But just as I’m in the groove, an email notification pops up. I know I should ignore it, but what if it’s something crucial? It would be irresponsible not to check, right?
Turns out, it’s a Groupon. Not exactly a life-or-death situation, but it feels time-sensitive. After a brief internal debate, I decide to snag a deal on a restaurant I’ve never even considered. Purchase completed, I tap my nails on the keyboard while waiting for my credit card to process. Oops! There goes a nail.
Frustrated, I head upstairs for a nail file and notice a towel lying on the floor. The sight of it reminds me that I have laundry waiting in the washing machine. I move the clothes to the dryer and empty the lint tray. While in the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and think, when did my eyebrows get so unruly? A quick pluck here and there, and I’m suddenly fixated on my face.
Self-reflection leads to the realization that I need wrinkle cream—expensive wrinkle cream. I need to earn some money to buy it, which brings my thoughts back to the book. I should be writing, but instead, I’m staring at the one sentence I managed to produce earlier. It no longer seems brilliant. Time to delete it and try again.
I push through, crafting new sentences, feeling a spark of productivity. But wait, is that my stomach grumbling? Yes! I’m ravenous. I think I’ll check Twitter for some lunch ideas; I haven’t visited in a while. So, I log on and find myself lost in the Twitter vortex for a good fifteen minutes. My head starts pounding—food is a necessity at this point.
I whip up a turkey sandwich and realize I’ve used the last slice of bread. How on earth did I run out already? I quickly jot down a grocery list: bread, milk, paper towels, laundry detergent, and Cheerios. The hunger pangs hit again, and I need something to wash down my lunch. I crack open a soda, only to find the recycling bin overflowing.
After dealing with the recycling, I notice my plants are wilting. I water them, contemplating the wisdom of having plants with three kids around. Finally, I sit back down with my sandwich and soda to reflect. It hits me that it’s been five days since my last blog post.
I attempt to start writing again. Nothing. I switch back to the chapter. Still nothing. I check Facebook, then email, then hop between comments and confessions for nearly an hour—accomplishing neither task.
Before I know it, it’s time to pick the kids up from school, and I’ve lost my chance to grocery shop. How did that happen? I’m left with no new chapter, no blog post, and a bare pantry. I vow to be more productive tomorrow. And then, I repeat the cycle all over again.
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In summary, the struggle to balance writing, parenting, and daily life is real for many of us. It’s a dance of distractions, unexpected tasks, and the constant search for moments of focus.
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