This Writer's Day

I wake as a writer in my bed. I can hear my family in the other room chit-chatting away. My son’s small voice is rather loud, but I find it comforting to know that he’s okay. My husband leaves for work, and it’s just me and the little one again. In the morning, inspiration hits, so I try to jot down a few words before my toddler sees me, but my attempt is foiled when he notices me out of the corner of his eye. Somehow, I am busier than I’d like. He plays blocks, we read a book, and I follow him during a potty break to ensure that the things in the bathroom remain safe. So many things have been destroyed when I wasn’t looking. Toddlers and water don’t mix.

Somehow the clock has run through the morning hours when I wasn’t looking and lunch is prepared and eaten. My mind has already run through a hundred different things, but I’ve pushed them off to keep from going insane. But now with errands to run today, I get dedicated time to think, though I’d rather be writing. It’s while driving that my son’s car seat holds him in place and my mind gets to wander.

Driving down the highway is perfectly mundane in every way. There’s music playing in the background that distracts both my son and half my brain. I speed up and slow down to go with the flow. I exist with the world around me—the cars, the daylight, and my exit coming up—but in my head I can see an imaginary world and hear my words describing it. Before me is a man, pale and gaunt. He is the very representation of my soul—sick and out of touch. These words go between thoughts and reflexes as I continue to drive my car through the real world, still always aware of the things I want to write. I’d dictate to the steering wheel, but my young son’s ears hear everything. My voice is reserved for answering his questions about which exit we’re taking and if he can have his strawberry drink.

Afternoon transitions to evening, and in the hectic chaos of my simple life, my ideas have faded in time. The sun sets and my husband helps put the kid to bed. I wash the day from me and hope the music I play inspires me and puts me in the right mind. I am finally free to visit my imaginary worlds and seek the words my inner voice had whispered endlessly throughout the day, but my inspiration is holed up, held hostage by the fear of failure. If only it were the fear of a deadline, then I could excuse my nerves, but instead, I stand at my pantry devouring a bag of chips. My gluttony has awoken in my anxiousness. I've already eaten a bowl of ramen and I stare at the bottle of sake I’ve placed on the table, but behind it is the laptop I’ve left open. The screen has gone black as the computer sleeps. This fear of rejection, this idea that I'm not good enough, tears me away from getting closer to my goal of simply writing. I go to bed a writer, wishing my dreams will open up and fill my mind with the inspiration I need to write tomorrow.

PC: Rachel McCall

Note from me (Jennifer Spurgeon/Eine Togi): Thank you for reading This Writer's Day. I wanted to use this as an opportunity to explain why this non-fiction vignette is important to me. It may only reflect one day in my life, but it is representative of my struggle to juggle the different components that make up who I am. (I only discuss motherhood and writing here. There is so much more that I allow to shape me.) My insecurities in who I am have always been a flaw of mine. I often fear that I am lacking in every area of my personality and what defines me, so I tend not to accept any part of who I am. That said, defining myself as an author is something that I have decided to accept. (I have long since accepted and cherished my role as a mother, even when his desires and my desires conflict.) Allowing myself to write is how I unmask myself.