The life of a writer is one of solitude.
We are either writing–or thinking (pondering) that which we have written and/or hope to write.
That I read your comment last week soon after my essay posted, but am just now responding evidences that we all have less money than time.
Or should I say, “…less time than money?”
In either case we, here in America, are running in short supply on both accounts with time being our most precious commodity.
Add motherhood to the mix and…well…
I think you get where I’m heading.
We writers achieve little, if any, monetary compensation for crafting and performing art with our words.
This fact places us in a quite precarious position.
It also forces us to decide.
What is most important to us?
Are we really writing from our heartfelt wish and drive to craft stories?
Or are we seeking some kind of recognition to fill in a whole or the gaps that exist in our living, remnants from earlier times and rooted in issues, both psychological and/or spiritual?
A writer who is also a wife and mother, or I should say, wife and mother first, I am committed to being and remaining present for my husband and daughters.
The stories I craft emerge from conflicts I face and choose to confront.
Resolution of the dilemmas my characters encounter arise from the struggles I face and those I witness other parents, mothers and fathers grapple with in a culture that consistently places ambition ahead of family and attention to relationships simmering and growing cold and hardening on the back burners of our list of priorities.
That I choose to explore this area of life, and do it with honesty and authenticity, requires that I live congruent to the values that knit my stories and novels.
We writers walk a tight rope attempting to perform and maintain a balancing act concerning our lives, responsibilities and with the relationships that bind us to those we value and need, who imbue our lives with meaning and provide the substrate from which we craft and shape our stories.
“Yes,” we come to this craft out a love for words, shaping sentences and paragraphs into meaningful stories, to heal and to help others heal.
My healing flows from the desire to pursue my passion, but not at the expense of intimate and meaningful relationships with my family and friends.
I want my daughters to see that we can have it all, but not all at the same time.
To truly enjoy the multitude of gifts life offers and that we can experience if we are willing to work for them, one must develop the quality of patience and an understanding that building one step prepares for that which we will envision and encounter on stepping upon the next level.
Much of our time spent practicing our craft requires we writers work alone.
In this sense time with family becomes of utmost important.
This is why, as stated in a previous blog post here, Of Writing, Time and The Realities of Publishing , and and guest post at SheWrites I have chosen self-publishing over seeking an agent with the goal of selling my manuscripts to a publisher.
I write because of my family, to express and convey the spectrum of meaning and depth their presence endows my life and living.
The relationships with my husband and our daughters–not the books I craft–let me know that I matter.
The memories they hold of us, demonstrate and bear evidence that I am and will have lived.
Crafting and refining my stories places icing on a wonderful and tasty cake–allows me to experience a little piece of heaven here on earth.
In the celestial haven I build and get to know my characters I plumb the depths of my heart and soul and come to know myself even better.
I am lucky to be able to not have to earn a living from my writing.
Those writers who do, and who are also able to write what they love, are truly lucky.
Very few of us find and experience both of these in one lifetime.
In this I feel triumphantly blessed.