Summer is here in the lovely Washington, but I wouldn't know it. I've been hibernating behind my laptop, pounding out Pigeon's story, so lost in her mind at times an hour or two can pass without a thought about my own world. Until one of my children need something, like food or a band aid. I look around for my husband. Am I really expected to be a mother and a writer? What world are they living in?
Seriously though, they've all been super supportive of my reclusive writing. My husband tells me to go write while he takes the kids to visit grandparents, plays outside, even goes to the beach without me. Trust me, this is a big step for him and I'm glad they're getting extra bonding time with just Dad.
But the other day, they were getting on their bikes and didn't even ask if I wanted to join them.
What have I done?
Have I become such a writer my family no longer expects me to be part of the fun? The memories?
I'm very proud of myself for writing Birds of a Feather in one month. However, it eats me up inside to think I must sacrifice one thing for another, afraid to step away mid scene fearing I won't find my way back into Pigeon's emotions. I'm coming to realize, the writer in me has grown. The connection I feel for this story is strong. I can find her when I need to.
Hopefully, after a little breather, when it's time to edit, I won't be grounded from my computer :)
Happy writing :)