So I sat down to write. I was full of enthusiasm. I wanted to get those wonderful bubbling ideas on paper. I wanted to let words spill onto the page in the way Earnest Hemingway or Fitzgerald did when writing. So I sat at my laptop and as I started to type I felt a presence creep up toward me. It was youthful, loving and it was accompanied by a very annoying munching, crunching noise. It was my seven year old son eating a cucumber. When the munching had finished my three year old son began his solo of an Ode to Underwear and Poop. At which point the seven year old began his “I am bored” poetry recitation. Then began the martial arts tournament, seven vs three year old. As I type now this very moment we have, dress up mommy in groceries while she types and pretends to ignore us.
So I am asking you why can’t I finish my novel? I have ideas. I just can’t seem to remember them long enough to get them on the virtual page. I, MariaAnna, feel like I am loosing my mind. I used to have a somewhat photographic memory. That is how I finished high school and college. Now, nothing I am lucky if I remember to turn of the oven most of the time. So I will leave you with this because they are now playing lions and tigers over my head and I can’t see the screen. Four children and never a dull moment.
So I am asking you why can’t I finish my novel? I have ideas. I just can’t seem to remember them long enough to get them on the virtual page. I, MariaAnna, feel like I am loosing my mind. I used to have a somewhat photographic memory. That is how I finished high school and college. Now, nothing I am lucky if I remember to turn of the oven most of the time. So I will leave you with this because they are now playing lions and tigers over my head and I can’t see the screen. Four children and never a dull moment.
