Virginia Woolf says that in order to write fiction, a woman needs a room of her own and money. I don’t think she’s wrong. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever been more right, although I haven’t read the whole essay (because what mom can afford random books?) Anyway, I think her argument for being divorced from one’s family (as I read it) to create is pretty valid. You feed the babies, you change the babies, you put them down for a nap, and you write. You feed your husband, fuck your husband, and put him down for a nap, and you write. You must move them out of your space to write. You can’t have double time - you can’t have someone else do things for them for you while you write. (Although, if anyone’s willing to feed my family and fuck the spouse, please do apply for the position, I no longer want it.)
Anyway, I’m sitting in a pho tea shop in the middle of town today. I told my husband I wanted to use the Starbucks gift card he had, as he doesn’t drink coffee, and I wanted to write, and I wanted to sit while I did it. So where’s he take me?
The popup Starbucks in the Safeway. No chairs, no wifi. Sure, babe, I can write here!!!
So I walked down for pho, and I’m having a Thai iced tea besides (so much sugar, oh well, fuck life) and this came to mind. I can’t write at home, because I cannot put my family away. They refuse to be good toys and stay in the box. Spouse wants to be broken on the sofa, crying because he hurts. All the time. Or watching Supernatural all night and cackling laughter, you take a pick. The kids? They…don’t even know what they want. They’re moping around the house today because roomie’s child went camping with her dad. Is that suddenly a Greek tragedy? I’m not crying. I get a couple days off picky-eater-cooking, and I don’t even know what to make because my brain is kind of cemented into no-tomatoes-no-onions-no-garlic-is-that-sour-cream-no-broccoli-eww-I-don’t-eat-eggplant…Oh and my favorite. “What’s tater tots?” Child, you know. I can make tater tot casserole!!!
Except I’m more in the mood for eggplant.
Anyway. I did write a little: Shamus, my Low King, talked, and the bard never shushes, so that’s fine. I just have to remember to breed the human out of their responses, as they are not. Basically, they’re really pretty junk-fiction sex toys, they’re not supposed to feel anything. Shamus is jealous, though, Finlay is terrified, and Taliesin is highly amused…for now. Shit’s about to go sideways for him.
Ugh, thirty ounces of iced coffee and a giant bowl of soup were maybe a bad plan. And that Thai iced tea doesn’t taste good anymore.
But I can’t go home until I’m written out, or I’ll never get out to let it out again. They want me to be captive at home, doing the things they don’t like to do but like to have.
I want me to be out doing what I like to do…and at least, the pho noodle place can’t make me fold laundry.
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