Time Marcheth Along...

After I decided to write a book (I mean really, really decided; met with an editor, cleaned out my office, told my husband), I began to research how other mothers and wives and working women pulled it all together.

One of my favorite writers, and people, for that matter, is Heather Lende, author of If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name. Heather lives in Haines, Alaska, a little town some five hours by ferry from Juneau, and has written the aforementioned book, a few others, and has a regular column in Women's Day, an achievement I covet madly. She started out writing obituaries for the Haines paper, then wrote her first book, then another, plus the extra stuff she does every day, all while staying happily married and raising her pack of equally awesome kids, now grownups and on their own quests to become awesome adults.

Heather knows how a mother's day can switch from empty to full in a matter of minutes; in fact, she talks about it in a fabulous chapter of If You Lived Here...Forgotten trumpets, broken bike chains, chicken coops not draining properly, you name it.

Mondays and Thursdays are supposed to be Dedicated Writing Days.  Scheduled for my writing pleasure, these days are, making any other opportunities mere icing. Yesterday, though, I blew it. Went to a lunch meeting, picked up a stranded friend from the airport and delivered him to downtown Anchorage, then went back to meet him for a beer after seeing to my son's homework and dinner and Tiger Cub badge requirements. Total. Wash.

Finding the time to write is by far the most challenging aspect of creating a book. I feel like I'm making unauthorized withdrawals from the National Bank of Alaska On the Go, without any deposits. Then I feel guilty for doing the same from the Bank of Family. Argh.

Creating actual words is the easy part - it's the periphery that brings me grief.