My writing here has slowed recently. There are multiple reasons, but three of the biggest (smallest?) ones happen to be sitting near me finishing their dinner. We ate together, I just happened to finish before them. Now they are picking at the bits at the bottom of their bowl, probably as an attempt to stave off bedtime.
Since Thanksgiving, my husband and I have experienced a season of intense parenting (in addition to all the rounds of illness): our daughter is 9 going on 19 with lots of big opinions and bigger feelings; our 4-year-old son is flexing his self-determination muscles and being stubbornly contrary about every mundane detail; and our youngest, squirrely limber child that he is, has mastered climbing over baby gates and onto our dining room table. Laptops, cell phones, full mugs of hot coffee—they are all at his disposal.
We are doomed.
I regularly ask myself, am I doing enough as a parent? Should I be firmer? Gentler? Give them more space? Insert myself more? What sort of parenting is going to give me the desired outcome: well-rounded, functional, empathetic adults with strong faith who can think for themselves and contribute meaningful to society?
How much play do I really have here? It often seems like I might manage to impart a core value or two, but I lot of it is just tweaking around the edges of who they are (I can’t make my chaotic child love a little order sometimes or my orderly child loosen up a bit). I nudge them in what I think (but don’t often know) is the right direction. How much of parenting is me accepting who they are and letting them be who God made them (inappropriate behavior, like hitting, biting your sibling aside)?
I live in these questions as most of my day happens in 3-to-5-minute increments. Writing must wait for screen time or nap time because every few minutes, a child needs me. Interrupts. Demands. I might be engaged with one of their siblings, on the phone, working, housekeeping, trying to write a blog, or in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been trying to teach them the concepts of boundaries or waiting their turn.
BUT they want something! AND IT CAN’T WAIT.
They exist solely in the now.
So long as they learn how to wait by the time they are sixteen and in the line at the DMV, I’ll have accomplished something noteworthy.
Will it be enough, though? I ask myself.
It’s not just the kids.
My husband and I are trying to carve out more intentional time together. We have a good marriage and we both want it to outlast the kids-at-home phase. We committed until death. Not just to be married, but to BE married. Together, in more than parenting and keeping house (although that is the majority of it right now).
Most nights we’re not able to connect in conversation (one of our shared love languages) until quite late. He’s a good sport and helps me hash out plot problems in my novel and craft believable male characters. But sometimes we talk too late and venture into more controversial topics. Which inevitably can lead to fights if we’re not careful. The stupid kind of hashed-over arguments you trip into after being married as long as we have. The sort that annoyingly unravels the feelings of closeness you’re aiming to achieve before bed.
Date nights are rare as the cost of babysitting alone runs $80-100. Netflix and chill is more our budget level and highly dependent upon when and how well the kids stay asleep (or at least in bed). We’re over 40 now. Every minute we stay up past midnight costs us a month of our future years. There is no sleeping in. No naps to make it up for lost sleep the next day.
How long can we go like this? I wonder.
Other people, our parents, friends with older kids, random grocery shoppers—they all reassure us this is a stage. We (mostly) made it, they say. You’ll survive too.
I am querying literary agents with my first novel. Not the first I’ve written, mind you. Just the first I’m ready to share with readers.
I’m not just a writer, I’m also a novelist. Not that writing novels is superior to other forms of writing—I admire poets and memoirists as those seem more challenging to me than telling a story. I write essays and sometimes dabble in (not very good) poetry. But I LOVE writing novels, layering plots, forming interconnected complex characters, and crafting atmospheric settings that feels real enough to touch.
Saying that publicly feels weird though. Can I call myself a novelist even though I’m not published?
My writer friends tell me I can. But sometimes I struggle with self-doubts when it comes to my fictional stories. I become a shy, retreating pangolin who just wants to curl up in a ball to escape the world.
Maybe I feel this way because I pour my heart into these stories and feel like they communicate something about me, my passions, my life, my obsessions, and my commitments that I can’t seem to talk about directly. Fiction reveals the complex issues I can’t quite resolve head-on. Exposes the deeper queries I don’t even know I have until a beta reader or editor scribbles a comment in the margins about it.
All that to say, I’m very excited/overwhelmed/panicked) about querying agents. It’s a big step for me.
There’s no question—I’m keeping my Substack. But I might post less frequently for a little bit. And hopefully, I’ll write about some of the themes that appear in my novel.
Until then, enjoy Slugs n Bugs’ fantastic song about pangolins.
"Pangolin" SONGS | Modern Kid | Slugs & Bugs - YouTube
It's so tough how actually talking with your spouse ends up happening when you're both the most tired, way at the end of the day. I hear you.
I'm excited about your novel! From my little bit of experience, I would say that persistence and determination are key with taking it to the next step with agents. Don't give up if you get some rejections at firsst. The agent/publisher will be looking for fit -- you have to keep trying until there's a match: you and your work matches them and their needs.
Good luck!
This resonates on a lot of points! My kids are older teens now, but I remember the chaos of the younger years, and I remember there was a moment when I thought, “This is why our kids don’t leave home before 18, and why they desperately need hands-on parents who are willing to teach, rinse, repeat.” Our eldest started college this year and while she’s thriving there are so many things I’m sure we should have touched on. It’s hard and wonderful.
Sure sounds like you’re a writer! Your description of what you like about writing novels is exactly what I love about it. And I’m still self conscious about talking about writing them, too.