In many ways finding time to write now is much more difficult since I returned to teaching. Now I pick up my daughter from daycare after work, come home, play with her, make dinner, try to tidy up the house and sometimes put her to bed if my husband is working late. After that I write. But not always. Sometimes I literally have to bark orders at myself to go into my office and at the very least, re-read a story I am working on to find the kinks and tidy it up.

During the weekends I revert to the same routine as when I was home with my daughter – she naps, I write. It’s certainly not enough time. But being a teacher, I am afforded holiday breaks – like this week, for example. Guiltily, I drop her off at daycare as I do when I go to work, but then I come home and pour a second cup of coffee and write.

In my last blog post I talked about the process of writing a third novel and why it is so much more difficult. The point I’d like to make here, admittedly a tangential one, is that I can only write anything worthwhile when I am alone and the house is quiet. These conditions are difficult to come by when my husband is downstairs with my child and she screaming to watch the Wizard of Oz while I’m in my office trying to start, continue or finish a story. It’s the same sensation of re-reading the same sentence in a book because you’re constantly being interrupted.

Did I mention that I couldn’t write at all if I didn’t have my husband? He is, and has always been, my champion. Some husbands sulk or passive-aggressively make comments when their wives are busy with aspirations that are not tied to family. To praise him here would divert the purpose of this blog entry. But to avoid recognizing that he is one of the sole reasons my writing has to come to fruition would be a gross oversight.

And let’s not forget the grandmothers. Because they will come babysit when I have to host my reading, or read my work for a reading, or meet writer friends to discuss and critique work we have swapped for feedback……. There is no end to the invaluable support they provide.

How I write as a mother: finding snippets of time, leaning hard on my husband, mother and mother-in-law, and sitting down with the clearest of intentions.

If you are a writer, the words are also supposed to come pouring out of you like a waterfall of insightful phrases, an unstoppable deluge of commentary on the human condition. The pressure is fantastic. Not to mention that you are scribbling these bits of genius on bar napkins, old underwear, brown paper bags or anywhere else you may be where your talent interrupts your every day life and by God, you have to write.

Well, I’ve rarely experienced any of this. Ideas and phrases come to me, yes. But I find myself literally sitting down and thinking instead of writing. Of the many types of writing processes that exist, I find that I need to sketch out my path before I can go for a stroll. Some writers just get high or drink to help them along, which I commend – I’m far too silly when I indulge in those sorts of things, and it becomes difficult to focus. I have great respect for the writer who can settle into their writing space and pick up where they left off. Perhaps that is the mark of a seasoned writer – I don’t know.

The struggle of writing this third novel forces my hand to write short stories – a temporary and satisfying diversion. Temporary for the obvious reason that it doesn’t take me nearly as long to write, and satisfying because I have completed something that I am more pleased with than not. There is also the lovely possibility of the piece being accepted and published. It reminds me of when I was in high school and how I would avoid studying for a test or writing a term paper by spontaneously cleaning the kitchen or rearranging my small collection of books. Inevitably, the paper would be written or the notes would be studied, not always yielding the finest results due to my procrastination.

I hope that is not the case with this novel. As excited as I am to write it, I am equally terrified. It is like finding the one key that fits the lock of a door I need to desperately open. What if the key fits, but doesn’t turn? That sudden elation followed by the sharp, ultimate certainty of failure.

(One day since my post went up)

I am adding on here in hopes of ending on a brighter note, which is the obvious fact that I love to write. And similar to many writers, I need to write. Last year I was invited to teach a writing workshop by Alan Semerdjian, a writer and musician I am very fond of, and during a panel discussion one of the students asked me, “Why do you write?” And I responded, “When I don’t write for a while I start to feel itchy, like I’m keeping secrets from my best friend.” I remind myself of that when an idea occurs to me, because I know the idea is moments away from being sketched out into something tangible and hopefully significant.

You can read more about my novel on Bleeding Heart’s website.

I am anticipating the date of my book release party to be sometime in the early fall.

Upcoming works being published:

My short story “Saved” will be part of a themed anthology “Mother Knows Best” published by Infinite Acacia. 

My short story “The Art of Trying” will be published in an anthology about first-generation immigrant experiences. The date is still to be determined.

Per Contra literary journal accepted my piece “Afterlife”, which will appear in their Fall 2014 issue.

I recently completed The Legacy of Lost Things, the prequel to my novel The Hollowing Moon.

Hamazkayin American-Armenian Writers
Friday, February 22nd
8pm
Waltz Astoria
23-14 Ditmars Blvd
Astoria, NY 11105

Fireside Reading at LIC Bar
Thursday, April 4th
(details to follow)

Oh, Bernice!
Saturday, June 15th
(details to follow)