Time to Write

I finally got around to reading the April 2012 issue of Poetry, and the journal prompted me to do some deep soul-searching... or as deep as it can get when I'm dealing with diaper changes and taking dance breaks with my toddler. But really, he does have the most adorable way of asking: as soon as he hears a danceable song, he puts up his arms and entreats, "Dance with me?"

What was I saying? Oh, yes, the April 2012 issue of Poetry, wherein the editors celebrated the magazine's 100th year by having some poets reminisce about famous poets they've met. In particular, I was taken by Patricia Smith's piece on Gwendolyn Brooks, bringing her to life as the practical-minded but warm-hearted person one would expect from Brooks' poetry.

I did not encounter Brooks' work until I took an African-American Poetry course in grad school, but upon reading her work I numbered her among my favorite poets and marveled that I'd never heard of her before.

The part that sticks out for me, though, was something that the famous poet said to Smith while at a reading. Smith writes:

I had uttered something that countless other writers have uttered before, a silence-filler of sorts, a throat-clearing that I assumed Ms. Brooks, and anyone else who had ever picked up a pen, would instantly relate to and agree with. I was craving the comfort of common ground when I said, "I have a real problem finding time to write."

The corner of her mouth twitched, then spread into one of those indulgent smiles that knots you up a little inside. It's the smile a teacher gives you before handing back a test paper with a grade lower than either of you expected.

Without looking directly at me, Gwendolyn said, "Your problem should be finding time for anything else."

One of my great regrets is that I did not travel to Chicago to hear Brooks read while she was alive, but I do not envy Smith that awkward moment. Indeed, I felt as chastened as she did by such muted but pointed criticism.

The problem should be finding time to do anything else. That idea has been rolling around in my head, competing with the myriad tasks I have completed since I read it. While doing water aerobics, cooking dinner, and doing laundry it haunted me. While performing my evening transcription work and writing the weekly recap pieces I've been doing for Yahoo! Television, the phrase echoed. While walking my son in a stroller so that he could sleep, while sorting through submissions to Wild Violet the refrain continued. While feeding my son his Gerber macs and cheese. While reading him Skippyjon Jones for the first time (and then a second time, after he begged, "again"). While taking him to buy new sneakers, because his feet grew a size in a month. All that time, during all those tasks, the phrase kept nagging me.

The problem should be finding time to do anything else.

A friend just wrote me a note -- on actual paper, in the mail! -- telling me how much she admires me for all that I do. And it's true: if you add it up, I do quite a bit. But it is never enough.

No matter how many poems I write, or articles I publish, I always feel as if I ought to be doing more. No matter how many books I read to my son, no matter how many times I dance with him around the living room, I always suspect a "perfect mom" would also be engaging in an afternoon craft project.

The house is never clean enough. The cat never gets enough petting. The magazines pile up, and the e-mail festers. The problem, it seems, is having time for anything.

And yet, I do what most writer moms do: I find ways of fitting it all in. Every day I pick one or two main tasks to complete. Sometimes they are writing tasks; sometimes they are household or organizational tasks. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon putting my toddler's too-small clothes on eBay (but there are bags more of it). Today, I updated my online bookstore to include some excerpts of my essays book (one of many promotional ideas I needed to act upon).

Yesterday, while my toddler slept in his stroller, I sat in a park and checked Wild Violet submissions from my Droid Inspire. On the way back home, I dictated a poem into my voice recorder. Arriving home, I had Dragon Naturally Speaking transcribe the poem while I busied myself getting dinner for my son and myself. The transcription still languishes in my "Poetry" Dropbox folder (which can be accessed from my phone if needed), in need of me to correct the mistakes and whip it into a poem.

But it is there. And that is something.

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What are your issues with writing and time management, and how do you cope?