Lilith Saintcrow

I do. I love my children.

But sometimes I just want muzzles. Or a cone of silence. Oh sure, it’s okay for them to play their music/cartoons/games at top volume, but the instant I try to sneak off to a quiet corner and watch some Musecrack for Perry the hellbreed, sent by the lovely Selkie?*

Of course they have to get progressively louder and louder so I can’t watch what I want. Because they want my attention. Even now the Prince is hanging on the arm of my chair, watching me type and making little clippity-cloppety horse noises.

And people wonder why I’ve learned to shut out distractions and just write. It’s self-defense. I’d never get anything done otherwise. A few moments of “yes, I see you, you’re lovely, now let me work,” goes a long way.

I’m in that itchy stage of creation where I just want to be writing, thank you. I don’t want to be interrupted for anything, which makes me a cranky Lili. Getting dinners and housework out of the way puts me in a lake of sharply-controlled frustration. It’s going to be this way until I hit the three-quarters slump–that is, when the book is three-quarters done and becomes the Book That Will Not Die, Stabbity Stabbity. Thankfully, I’ve been able to go on long walks–part of the fitness regimen**, I suppose, but also a very necessary part of the creative process. I think best when I’ moving, and I think doubly well when I’m alone. I really, really understand Bukowski’s constant harping on solitude, even if I deplore his misogyny and alcoholism.

Hey, nobody’s perfect.

So I’m off to get a few more words out. And the kids, well, they are still buzzing around. Fed, watered, and cosseted, now they are watching Looney Tunes.

It’s close to a perfect day already.

* She’s making up for sending me all sorts of sweaty medieval action that woke up Tristan.

** Because I think it’s about time I took my body back from my mother’s constant calling me ugly, thank you. More on that later.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 26th, 2008 at 10:30 am and is filed under Real Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.