Testing, testing

It's 8:30 p.m., and both boys are in bed. I assume they are asleep, but you never know. I sit in the home office Jason and his friend Dan set up for me last week, with my ears straining in the direction of their rooms. Jason has given the night off to write. He said that if Peter or Max wakes up, he'll handle it. I hope that doesn't mean pillow fights. Jason is many things, but a stern dad is not one of them. He's more like the dad who gives you ho-hos when mom's not looking, then blames it on the dog.

I can't complain, though. He's being so supportive of this whole writing thing I pretty much have to do it now, right? I've got 25 pages of my novel done, and the entire outline, just like I learned in the writing workshop I took last summer. Yes, it took me that long to get started. But at least I started, right? After more than a decade of telling everyone I knew that I would write a novel someday, that day is finally here. Wish me luck! I love this photo, because it reminds me of how I feel every time I face a blank page. Free, full of stormy potential, but terrified by all that space - and wondering how I'll make it over that barbed wire holding me back.

Poor Jason. He's in the great room, trying to watch C-SPAN on mute. I can't imagine anything duller than watching C-SPAN on mute. Lawyers have funny notions about what makes entertainment. Gotta love 'em. And I do love my lawyer. (Don't think we're rich, either, because he's not THAT kind of lawyer.)

What other husband listens to you tell him you finally want to write your great American novel this year, pretends to shrug off the idea, sends you off to a day spa with his sister while his mom watches the boys, and then he and his pals clear out the second guest room and turn it into a cozy home office (in beiges and limes and yellows, my favorites!) to surprise you when you get home? Like I said, I pretty much have to do this now.

Okay, so let me see if I can say this: I am a writer. Huh. Didn't feel that bad, actually. I could get used to it. Right now, I'm just trying to approach this like I approached knitting a while back. I really sucked at knitting, but I made myself do it, every evening after the boys went down, until I finished something. It was a washcloth. I think. Not even a very pretty washcloth. Sort of a washcloth version of an amoeba, honestly. But I finished it. That's my point. I can finish things, when I aim to. And, God willing, I will finish this book, too.