All in On Writing

A Christmas tree farm

I’ve been meaning to write this for over a month now. When we make a choice to do one thing, we are saying no to many others. And I have kept saying yes to dishes and laundry and sleep and sorting pile after pile of papers, and work, because I don’t want to get fired. This makes for a temporarily clean house and a somewhat rested body and a few extra dollars. But I’ve said no to creativity.

On love and pain and time: I had birthed a death

I am sitting in a Starbucks off of Main Street. It is Sophie’s third day of preschool, where she will spend 2.5 hours every Monday through Friday for the next 10 months or so. Let’s just say that that gives me 2 hours to myself, given that I will need time to drop her off and pick her up. So that's 10 hours a week. 40 hours a month. 400 hours over the next 10 months, give or take.

Chocolate Milk

I'm writing. Obviously doing something. Matt is sitting at the table next to me, just sitting. Sophie comes over with a carton of chocolate milk, looks at me, and repeatedly asks: "Can I have chocolate milk momma?"

Before the Internet

Before cellphones and the internet, we'd arrange a time for my mom to pick me up from the mall, and I'd be where I said I'd be at the time I said I'd be there. I probably just asked somebody for the time. Or she waited, probably not happy with me. Or I waited, wondering how I was going to get home. Or I'd call collect on the payphone and in the space where I was supposed to only say my name so the recipient knows who's calling, I'd instead say: "come pick me up from the mall!" and then quickly hang up so my dad wouldn't incur any charges. He hated being charged for collect calls or ambulance rides…