Recently I read that to become a better writer, a person should write for ten minutes a day, every day. Even if there's nothing to say, ten minutes a day. In theory, that's great. Ten minutes doesn't seem like much, right? But as I sit here sit here, watching the clock, I think ten minutes feels like an eternity. Do you know what I can get done in ten minutes? I can switch laundry, clear the kitchen counters, get the front hall tidied, and sweep the kitchen floor. Or I clean off the bathroom counter, put away all the clean towels, and strip two beds. Or I could clean out the fridge and take out the trash.
Then I start to wonder if that's all my life is right now. Kids and cleaning. Kids, chaos, and cleaning. And then I wonder if that's so bad. It used to drive me nuts when the teens were little. I felt so unfulfilled, so incomplete. But this time around, I've dealt with a job and a family and lemme tell ya - it's not al it's cracked up to be. A double income is nice, but the emotional strain on our family wasn't worth it. Of course, now we're dealing with financial strain, but we're finding ways to cope. So maybe my life is only kids and cleaning right now... and in this particular moment, I'm okay with that. No, I'm better than okay; I'm grateful.
Ten minutes still seems like a pretty long time to do something as selfish as write about my life, though. I'm not supposed to care about my audience (which is fine because I don't have an audience... ) nor am I supposed to make corrections to content in that time. I'm just supposed to concentrate on getting words on the screen. Let's see how many days each week I can manage that.
Still, though... ten minutes. As I type this, I am also staring out the window at the tips of tiny shoes, waiting to see them start to kick. Connell is zonked out in the van and it's a beautiful day, so I let him stay there.
You know, when I think about 10 minutes of sleep... it doesn't seem like nearly enough time. So maybe it's all a matter of context.