I had the kind of writing session this morning that was so good I had to ask Dorothy to hang on a minute while I finished a thought, which hasn't happened in a long time. Usually, I have petered out by the time she comes down the hall toward my nest on the couch with her enviable bedhead.
At Ben's suggestion, I am waking up before the kids and writing, not working. I used to wake up early and work and then write if there was any time left. There was never any time left, and if a small space opened up, I would be sure to fill it with doom scrolling because my book felt like failure too big to confront first thing in the morning.
Minnie has made every scrap of extra time to myself more valuable, though, so if I am going to leave my warm bed and delectable baby, I might as well make the time matter. So, I wrote every weekday morning in January, and I think I will meet my goal of folding in one additional session beyond my mornings each week in February. Astoundingly, I have also found more time to work in my real day.
I can always find more time-- it's an amazingly renewable resource and also the most finite resource around. How does this even work?
Sweetest baby ever:
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