Or there abouts . . . I wrote two thousand last night and three thousand today. I estimate there's about three to five thousand left (chump change!). A monumental amount of effort was involved in getting this far. And the hardest part wasn't the actual writing itself. It was enforcing a quiet time in a house made up of six people--four of them boys.
My office is a small room that originally served as a breakfast nook. There's no door on it. Until recently, this wasn't much of an issue. I could concentrate anywhere, anytime, with children hanging on me, dogs and cats in my lap, and music playing. Not anymore. These days I need to "hear" myself think in order to create. I often pause to read it out loud to follow the logic of my own story. When the boys were younger they went to bed a lot earlier so what writing I didn't get done while they were up and around I finished after their bedtimes. Now I'm lucky if the older two disappear before eleven. With Daniel, the second borne, this isn't an issue. Like his father, he's quiet by nature. We can work in the same room without disturbing one another.
The oldest is my child.
A night owl.
A night owl who communicates at night.
So there I am, typing away, focused on the task at hand, and I hear, "Hey Mom! Do you know what drifting is?"
"Yes," I reply, still typing.
"Have you ever seen it done in an SUV?"
"No." Still typing.
"It's lots of fun."
"Oh." Still typing, typing, typing. Wait. The phrase replays itself. I turn around. "What?"
He grins. "Just wanted to see if you were listening. It's fun to mess with you when you're writing." Then he launches into whatever it is he's into that he wants me to know about--music, school, friends, video games . . .
Today I asked for Gary's cooperation. Ever the supportive husband, he gathered the younger boys up and took them off to town. Jeremiah, he assured me, was deeply involved in playing a video game on his computer and probably wouldn't be out until graduation.
The front door closes. Gary and the others drive off.
Jeremiah appears seconds later (I am not making this up). "Hey! Did I tell you I figured out how to make a green screen . . ."
I turned around, smiled, listened. Then explained what I was trying to do. He smiled back and assured me that he knew that and that he was mostly wanting to aggravate me.
"Some day," I said "When you're a famous director, you're going to call me up and say, 'Mom, my children are never quiet. They're bouncing off the walls, running through the house, and shouting. I can't get any work done.' And I am going to laugh. And laugh. And laugh."
"Yeah. I'm going to laugh too. Especially since I'm not going to have children. That way I can work without being disturbed by annoying teenagers."
I want a door for Christmas.