“Hi, Ethan, nice to see you,” I said, trying to divert his attention.
“Hi, Mom. Why did Dad pick us up today?”
It took great self-restraint to not blurt out something snarky, like “Because he’s your father, for god’s sake—and furthermore, I just argued about how adaptable you are, Ethan.”
“Because he was here and…I asked him to,” is what I actually said.
“He made a scene at school because he didn’t want to park in the parking lot, so he just waited for us in the drive-through area, holding up the line. People were honking, it was embarrassing. Why didn’t you tell him that on Wednesdays we walk all the way from the other side of campus?”
Even when I’m not involved, everything is my fault.
“Well, now he knows, doesn’t he? He didn’t intentionally make a scene. He probably just thought you’d be looking for my car.” I was still always defending him. “Where is he, by the way?I have a lot of writing to do and I need to get back up there,” I said, referring to my desk upstairs.
“He went back to work,” Noah said without looking up from the iPad.
I shook my head and tried desperately to hide my disappointment. He avoided me even though he told me we needed to discuss things. He couldn’t even give me an hour to cool off.
“I’m making salmon tonight. I’ll start dinner around five-thirty. Can you guys get your homework done, clean up your rooms, and throw the ball for Louie Louie before dinner? I need to go upstairs and write.”
“Sure, Mom, no problem,” Noah said.
Ethan looked at him and rolled his eyes.
“Ethan, don’t antagonize. For being a punk, you can pick up dog poop in the backyard.”
Noah smirked at him. Ethan didn’t have much impulse control. When he felt slighted, hurt, or irritated, he let it be known. “That’s so unfair. Just because I’m not kissing your—”
“Stop, Ethan, before you get yourself into actual trouble. Noah picked up the dog poop last time. It’s your turn. I’m going upstairs. I have to focus.”
When I got to my computer at the desk in my room, I opened the twelve-page script document and stared at a blinking cursor. Writer’s block is a tricky beast. To overcome it, you have to actually write, which seems obvious, but the block isn’t an easily definable state of mind where words and ideas escape you. The block, and succumbing to it, is more like an exaggerated form of attention deficit disorder, where everything is a distraction.
Plucking your eyebrows or getting the mail takes precedence over your work in progress. It’s also cyclical in that it feeds and starves itself. You subconsciously look for diversions. Youconvince yourself that learning to make a key lime cheesecake from scratch is a pressing matter.
I could feel myself slipping into avoidance. My focus had shifted from writing the script to writing Alex an email, but I knew I had to redirect my attention. For several minutes, I chanted over and over:Avoiding this script, Danielle, will only make the state of your life worse. Finish it, then write Alex the email.
It would be my reward. I would allow myself to tell him exactly how I felt, but only once I finished. I knew writing an entire script in one sitting was probably impossible, therefore telling Alex how I really felt would be successfully avoided, but I lied to myself anyway.
Against all my internal will, I shut the twelve-page heap-of-crap writing down and opened a new blank document. Ditching even that small amount of material to a writer is painful, but I knew it was trash. I began writing the script from the beginning. After twenty minutes, I had twelve new pages. Page twelve represented some kind of mile marker in my head, like it was the beginning of that last grueling five-mile climb of the Tour de France. It’s just the beginning of the climb, but your position is still everything.
I set my alarm for five-thirty on the off chance that I would actually get into a writing groove and need reminding that the kids were hungry. I opened Spotify to a writing playlist and put it on random. It only took thirty seconds of the loud music to push me over the giant block of procrastination. Finally, I was in the story.
Writing can be like a coma, a blackout, or a time suck, where you produce very little, yet still feel emotionally and mentally drained. But when it’s good, there’s just enough light for awareness.You’re aware that you’re writing, that words are flowing. You’re telling a story, watching it happen while your fingers are recording it. It’s euphoric…better than any other high.
“Mom? It’s seven-thirty. I’m gonna make grilled cheese for me and Noah.”
I looked up at Ethan as tears were steadily streaming down my cheeks. He looked over my shoulder and read the last words I had typed…The End.
My smile was an obvious tell for him. “You finished it?” For me, finishing a story is equal parts relief, pride, and sadness. It’s the final coming down.
“Yeah. I did. I’m sorry I forgot about dinner. I got caught up. Dad’s not home?”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. We didn’t really want salmon anyway. Dad texted us and said he’d be home around nine. I’ll make a grilled cheese, it’s no big deal.”
I nodded.
“Good job, Mom. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, E.”
