Apart from right now, while D is picking up the girls from Parent's Night Out and I am on my way to get some sleep, I have not had the house to myself for days. Our neighbor (a 2-time Nanowrimo participant who is planning on writing her 3rd novel next month) is talking about getting an apartment so she'll have a place alone to write. This is because her husband has retired and her 11 1/2 year old stores more energy than most fully functional nuclear power plants.
Margaret Atwood has written about being able to write in the middle of chaos, of life with it's family noises and demands - kids doing homework while she typed away, etc. But I think the Room of One's Own approach is much more conducive to real quality work for me personally.
And so I find myself thinking of whether I would really consider writing 50,000 words next month, and wondering where? when? how? - and most importantly, what? and about whom? This is ironic. Many writers I know have tons of things they want to say and not enough time to say them.
It's been an interesting exercise wondering what I care enough about to put in a novel. It's a painfully short and unconvincing list. Do I not have any passion in me? If not, where is it, anyway? Have I never had it? Or lost it somewhere?
Musing brought on by a tired mind.
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