Member-only story
When I Don’t Write,
I think about how much I could have written…
….If my biological alarm hadn’t gone off in the form of an eight-year-old child wanting to show me the latest book in the Sherlock Holmes series at 7 in the morning. If there hadn’t been that inevitable moment when I remember, in full inspirational momentum, that I need to check if the second child isn’t eating playdough. Or his sister’s markers.
The truth is that writing, for me, is not just an activity, it’s more than a passion – it’s a form of intellectual survival.
It’s proof that I haven’t completely lost myself among mismatched socks, diaper changes, wet wipes, and existential questions like „why are you the only mom who doesn’t just give the phone to the kids to get rid of them?!”. It seems that’s the sad trend…
But, paradoxically, the more I want to write, the less time I have.
In an ideal world, I would have an hour a day just for myself. In reality, if I catch eight minutes without „moooom!”, I spend them staring into space, trying to remember if I brushed my teeth today or just intended to. And my hair? Eh, it’ll do.
Sometimes, even silence seems suspicious. In fact, most of the time it’s not a good sign. When the kids are quiet, I know it’s not good. So…
