Midnights, March: 19

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I feel so much better tonight. Whoever invented naps was a genius. A small sleep outside of your regular big sleep? A demi-sleep? A li’l nappetizer? The a-snooze-bouche course? Snore d’oeuvres? That’s just some reeeal smart-brain stuff. Don't get me wrong; I'm still tired with a tiredness that fills my head like bees, but at least the bees are a bit subdued.

Albie stood today. He was holding onto his little Fisher Price push-toy, and I let go, and he stayed up, his plump legs set in a wide stance and his feet planted surely beneath him. I just laughed and laughed in half-disbelieving delight, feeling like Sarah in the Hebrew Bible.

Midnights, March: 18

Nope. I don't—I can't do it. I am too damn tired today. I can't move my brain. I remember earlier tonight thinking, “Such-and-such might be a lovely thing to write about tonight.” But now it’s gone. And good riddance, probably.

[Ed. from next morning: I remember what it was! I was reminded after seeing a video I can only describe as Jig-ercize called Jig Don’t Jog (“Get fit the Irish way!”). But it is not a lovely thing. Listen:

In my sixth-grade class, kids could choose either to play an instrument, and leave class for band practice one afternoon a week, or stay for gen-pop music class with the frizzy-haired music teacher whose name I cannot recall. I opted to stay. Because band kids are a buncha nerds.

That is, except for St. Patrick’s Day, when the TURNS TABLED. In honor of the holiday, the music teacher played this Irish song over and over on her boombox and made us all learn a little jig. I’m not sure if it was even a real Irish dance; it seemed like maybe a regular line dance with more bouncing. Then, when the band kids came back in, she made us perform the dance for the whole class.

Nothing—nothing—is more humiliating in life than being laughed at by the band kids.

NOTHING.]

Midnights, March: 17

Where did today go? What did I do with it? I remember taking a lovely, slow half-hour in the attic listening to the rain, but not much else.

Oh wait, I remember.

Today the boy had two nice long naps for the first time in his young life and instead of doing anything helpful or productive, instead of making life easier for anyone, I simply…didn't. What I did…was not. 

That's it.

Midnights, March: 16

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I’d forgotten how good it feels to really work. To dig into all the little pockets of time I can rustle up, and steal time from other pockets that aren’t mine to use. What I mean is, poking a hand out of the shower to jot down a few lines is finding a little of my own time to devote to writing. In fact, I used to hang a waterproof notebook on the shower wall for just that purpose. But stopping to write a paragraph or two during a board meeting? That's thievery. That time doesn't belong to writing. Which makes me, at times, a li’l bandit. A Time Bandit.

Am I above, say, fumbling for a pen at a red light and scrawling something down on my arm? Of course not. You know me better than that by now. But I will feel slightly conflicted about it. So perhaps I’m not the most fearsome Time Bandit, but I think that makes me approachable. People like a little humanity in a thief. A bit of moral compunction to muddy the waters.

Anyway.

I've even missed the frustration when other responsibilities interrupt, and the satisfaction that there are enough words in me today to warrant interruption.

Midnights, March: 15

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It’s so annoying when I say things like “I’LL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW,” because tomorrow keeps turning into today and all those things I said I’d do have to get done even though the only thing I want to do is slink to the ground muttering, “But I am le tiiired.”

Albie slept in this morning and Bill was home to occupy his wiggly little bottom, so I did some writing. I DID IT. I went through a story I’ve been working on for months (years? everything is a blur) and I filled in the gaps between scenes. It is not good writing. I literally just wrote, “Then this happens. Then this happens. And then, this.” But it’s story. I’m getting it done. I’m plastering over the holes; I’ll paint them neatly later.

MAYBE TOMORROW.

Midnights, March: 14

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Friday the 13th and my sisters have been texting spooky stories like it's the old days, all of us tucked into our beds in one room, staring at the ceiling in the dark, silent and breathless and shivering while the eldest scares the bejeebers out of us. 

I pulled up an old first draft today—only 6,000 words, but still. I read it over, appreciating a few sentences, feeling excited to work on it again. However, the wiggly curiosity of an eight-month-old made this all but impossible—at least while he was awake. Unfortunately, I'm still at the point where I need to sleep when he sleeps, so there isn't much time other than…well, right now. Three in the morning. When the brain is the soup.

Yet people make writing work even under conditions far more awkward and challenging than this. So I will try again tomorrow.

Midnights, March: 13

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I made the mistake of reading another author's newsletter.

I'm ashamed to admit this, but I can be a real Petty Penelope at times. A real Envious Emile. The green-eyed monster is my emergency contact, and it encourages all my worst impulses. 

So when I read that this self-published author whom I like and admire is being picked up by a reputable foreign publisher, I felt happy for that author. I did. They've worked hard. Their books are great. They deserve all this success and more.

But…then…again.

Wouldn't it feel good, in a twisted sort of way, if they weren't quite as successful as they're turning out to be? Wouldn't a big dollop of schadenfreude just hit the spot right about now? The better angel of my nature has been on a smoke break for a while now, and it's given me plenty of time to nurture a raging inferiority complex. It's beginning to fester nicely.

Listen, green has always been my color, but this is hardly a flattering shade. If I put half as much energy into my own work instead of gorging myself on the sourest of grapes, maybe I'd have another book published by now. 

That is harsh. But no less true for it.