One Little Elephant

I write on a timer - 15 minutes at my desk, 15 doing housework - and currently my most productive hours are 7am to noon. That adds up to 2.5 precious writing hours. I'm not useless in the afternoons, but I'm not as productive. So why do I regularly allow my morning writing time to evaporate while doing tasks that could be done at other times?

Today I spent 4 hours of prime writing time getting Number One Son's scholarship paperwork trundling through three different institutional offices. Mission accomplished. He'll have the money to continue school in the fall. That's wonderful. But I didn't get any writing done today. And that's not. I could have done the same scholarship research, sent the same emails, made the same phone calls, sat on endless hold multiple times, and done paperwork just as effectively in the afternoon. But I didn't.

So why didn't I? Am I really serious about writing? Do I feel that I must earn my writing time by making sure everyone else is taken care of first before I "indulge"? What is it that keeps me from maintaining a protected time and space for writing?

I need to do some hard thinking on this. Perhaps by answering those questions, I can overcome this odd writing sabotage I commit against myself on too regular a basis.

Something that's helping me write today: the truth that the sun doesn't need to be rising in the east to start a day, or at least to start a day over.

Wise men and women have warned against it for centuries. Yet most of us at one time or another are guilty of trying to take the speck out of another's eye while ignoring the plank in our own.

Not long ago I attended a formal banquet where the guest speaker was a trim, fit man. A dynamic speaker, he held the room of middle-aged women spellbound from appetizers through entrees.  But as smartly uniformed waiters moved amongst the tables offering trays loaded with luscious desserts something happened. The speaker changed course and suddenly went off into a shocking rant about the girth of the attendees.

Yep. He called the audience of carefully primped and polished middle-aged ladies FAT.

Dessert forks froze just short of rouged lips. Brows knit. Cheeks reddened. The click of forks to plates and the clink of cups to saucers ceased abruptly. And in that sudden silence you could almost hear the roar of female brains.

Me? Is he referring to me? Oh, what made me think wearing this torturous girdle would matter? But my husband assured me this color was slimming - or at least he grunted in what I thought was a positive manner when I asked. Oh why have I let myself go like...?

Hey! Wait a minute. Wait just a darn tootin' minute! Who does he think he is? We paid him to be here. We didn't pay him to insult us. He's throwing stones? Sure, his waist is trim, but he's gray and wrinkled and his shirt and tie don't match. Isn't he on his fifth marriage? Isn't he the one who practically gets tennis elbow from lifting so many cocktails? Who the heck does he think he...

The mistress of ceremonies, who'd handed the guest speaker the mic with an adoring smile at the beginning of the meal, plucked that same mic from his hand with tight lips and a terse, "thanks." He smiled and trotted off to retake his seat oblivious to the distress he'd caused, while she stumbled through a feather-smoothing speech of her own about member accomplishments and upcoming events. Cups began to clink against saucers again. Though fewer forks clicked dessert plates.

I drove home thoughtful. He'd been out of line - speaking the truth like that - hurting people. But despite whatever planks he might have in his own eye, there was no denying he'd clearly seen the chubby specks in ours.

I mulled it over in my mind, coming to a decision as I pulled into my driveway. I could remember that banquet as The Night of the Hurtful Hypocrit, or I could allow it to become The Night of the Helpful Hypocrit.

So...

Darn It!...

fewer burgers, more salad.

Something that's helping me write today: a stationary bike and a wireless keyboard.

My buddy Aimee Carson, author of Secret History of a Good Girl (Mills and Boon September 2011) and How to Win the Dating War (December 2011), has kindly nominated me for a Sweet Award. Thanks, Aimee!

Sweet Awardees are asked to do two things. So here goes...

The first: list 7 random facts about yourself on your blog

1. I love Masterpiece and Mystery Theater
2. I recently joined an in-person critique group
3. I'm addicted to Sonic cokes
4. A horny toad lives in my front flower bed.
5. In high school I set several school basketball records that it took 20+ years to break
6. I own multiple name-tag brooches because I like them and because paper ones get caught in my hair
7. I enjoy Sudoku, crossword puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, solitaire, and brain teasers

The second: nominate 10 bloggers for the Sweet Award (in random order)

1. Wendy Marcus who inspires me with her work ethic and sense of humor
2. Jen Probst who reminds me that one mom raising a family with love and laughter changes the world
3. Aimee Carson who makes being a fulltime mom and a dedicated doctor look easy and makes me want to be the best version of myself
4. Jen Fitzgerald who reminds me of the little treasures buried in each day
5. Karen Whiddon who shows me that goals plus hard work are the keys to success
6. Clover Autrey who astounds me with her positive attitude, energy and courage
7. Adele Countryman who clears the path before me constantly by sharing her wisdom and experience
8. Dave Farland who generously shares market trends, writing tips, and business smarts with aspiring authors
9. Marty Tidwell who makes being an empty-nester look like a BALL rather than a bawl
10. My husband and kids who relentlessly support and encourage my writing

Okay, I confess numbers 7 and 10 aren't bloggers, but they are Sweet! so I put them in anyway.

Something that's helping me write today: remembering to visit http://www.4badmommies.com/ for a chuckle.