Every single day when I awake, I plan my tasks on laborious, itemized, prioritized lists. By checking things off those lists, I am calmed. I gain a fleeting feeling of control–until the next day’s list begins. Most days the list has an item called “write” and most days that item goes unchecked. There just isn’t any time to give to writing when there is grading, planning, teaching, reporting, experimenting, advising, reading, and all the other academic -ings squeaking like a rusty wheel, demanding action.
Ten years into my writing ‘hobby,’ I acknowledge this truth: As much as I need to breathe, eat, drink coffee, laugh, love, think, and sleep, I need to write.
Deep in the writing process, my brain clicks to a place I cannot otherwise reach. It’s a viscous yet wide open place. Ideas swirl, unfurl, and bloom like a rosebud in the summer sun. Words and thoughts and characters and stories ebb and flow, and my five useful typing fingers struggle to keep up. ( I do have ten working fingers, but half of them don’t like to touch the keyboard.)
The summer break is days away. I’m on my way back to that place where my characters are waiting, impatiently, to help me realize their story.