In the beginning it seemed like a self indulgent luxury; a week in France with other writers. I can see the pool, aloe growing in the garden and a little sand lizard running across the patio. The writing retreat provides quietness, tranquillity, and solitude.
For years I wrote in the midst of having a husband, raising two daughters, occasionally tidying a house, giving classes, teaching, editing other people's manuscripts, answering the telephone, and juggling most of the usual anxieties and pleasures.
Sometimes it felt frustrating and others suffered because I was angry with them for not submitting to my selfish timetable (ie. I want to write leave me alone). Other times it was just tedious, the daily organisation required to keep 'things going' locking my mind into the busy, administrative level.
The last year has been a struggle. I no longer work for my husband business. My husband lives in London, and I'm frequently alone with the children. I've had a couple of minor surgeries and infections. And the novel I'm working on is a lumpy and desperately needs to be transformed.
I know my children are being taken care of because of the blessing of WiFi and FaceTime. But I miss them so much.
And then once again, I find out there is 'trouble at mill' because of the curse of WiFi, and a series of emails. It gives me a sick sick feeling.
I am so close to jumping on a plane.
I comfort myself in the fact that emails have been sent to various parties. I have done what I can.
If I am going to start my new career in writing I need to put writing first. But it is hard.
Today I finished a story for The Day of the Dead event on the 30th of October at The Square Tower. I've written another six thousand word story. I've done a couple of good exercises and completed a poem. I am pleased with my progress.
I still have things I want to finish. And that is what I'm going to do.
I wonder if this uncertainty happens if you are a man?