Write because it’s Sunday (or at least it was yesterday when I wrote this).
Write because the baby just delivered an inevitable (and disgusting) teething trilogy of carrots, milk, and who knows what else all over my husband’s sleeve. “Better him than me,” I thought to myself because secretly I’m maneuvering, trying to carve out a few minutes to sit down to write soon.
Write because the sprawl of wooden Jenga pieces will not put themselves away and picking them up from the floor at this very moment will not matter even if for a few minutes while I finish this sentence.
Write because Sunday evening the family finds itself tired of each other in this small space and scatters in wiggly bodies and exhaustion throughout the house to the various crevices of play and solitude.
Take this brief yet brilliant time to scribble, type, or think about the next line, fumble through an idea, pretend not to hear the baby stirring in his crib upstairs. But even after the dishwasher is loaded for the night, clothes set out for the morning, and the lunches are nearly made, that corner in the living room where I want to curl up with my journal or laptop may just have to wait. Finish the sentence, the final thought, then put it away, the baby is still stirring upstairs and would rather fall asleep in my arms.
And even after the kids are asleep and I softly step from their room back downstairs, I remember to write because while the laundry won’t fold itself, the next sentence or page or idea I’m working on is far more interesting than a stack of folded towels. Write because even if for the next few minutes, the laundry can wait.
Why do you write?
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