I have the most beautiful writer’s loft. It has wide windows on two walls and cream carpet so thick that my toes sink into the pile as I walk. Because it’s so high in the house, the air is always warm with dusty shafts of golden light. Cardboard boxes line one side, contents marked by black Sharpie on the exposed ends. Galleys, manuscripts, rejections, acceptances. File cabinets on another, filled with collected bits and pieces waiting to turn into stories. On one wall stands a large desk, its surface littered with pens and papers and half-drunk cups of coffee. A battered laptop sits in the middle, hedged by a family photo and a wilted tropical plant.
Of course, it’s not real.
But I spend a lot of time in this loft regardless. My mind’s eye simply cannot let it go. I slip inside, pad silently through with my fingers stroking each surface. Here lies all the writing that patters about my head: short stories, novels, essays. They’ve come out, finally, some just as I imagined and some far from it, and they’ve actually been accepted, edited, published. I take it all in, my heart satisfied and my brain at peace, and then slowly back toward the door. When I get there, I continue backwards until I shut it carefully -- it’s a heavy door, solid wood -- and lock it with an old-fashioned brass key, which I then slip into the pocket of my oversized fleece hoodie before drifting from my daydream.
And then I’m in the real world. Piles of laundry in the garage are organizing a resistance. Plates pile glass-high by the sink as they wait for the dishwasher -- didn’t I just run it? -- to be emptied. Somewhere screams escalate as they wait for authority to step in and negotiate a car trade or turn taking. My laptop still sits in the middle of the desk, still hedged by that same family photo and that ever-wilted plant, only now that desk is relegated to a corner of our generously cluttered kitchen.
As I hurry into the living room, wondering how we can have twenty trains and still fight over Henry, my fingers pat that key. I can feel it in my pocket, heavy and solid like the door, even though it’s just as fictitious as the rest of the loft. I like it that way. The room is so beautiful, golden and serene. It’s so full. Locked away, the key in my pocket, it looks like a satisfying life’s work. And I have a whole other life’s work to do, one that barely allows for email let alone a novel of any consequence.
My son and daughter circle our blue hand-me-down train table, weaving between its edge and the wall in a way only managed by very small people. Older by two years, my son purposefully moves each train through the connecting paths, occasionally narrating action. His sister bounces her train from spot to spot, pushing past her brother with aplomb. They had come together and, both stubborn as their mom, refused to make way for the other to pass. And then, by pushing, weaving, squeezing up and under, slipped through and were back to business.
I sit on the floor nearby and wonder at how far we’ve come. My son was still heartily dependant on me when my daughter was born. The combination made writing impossible. I was lucky to take a shower here and there, between nursings and playtimes and naps. But I watch them now, managing so well on their own, I think I sometimes forget that I’m not always needed any more.
I’m at a point when I could write, if time were made. Suppose the laundry only got done at seven AM when I realized no one had clean underwear. Suppose the kids watched an extra video and I provided a laptop’s tink-tink keystrokes as accompaniment. Suppose we ate pizza two nights a week and drank from paper cups -- goodness knows we’d have run out of dishes long ago -- while rejection slips and short stories and carefully bundled submission packets piled glass-high instead. All added up, it’s really not quite so bad.
The real problem is that I know exactly what I’ll find when I open that door: nothing. Because I haven’t put anything in there yet. And it does look so much better full.
My daughter stops, considers the double-decker bridge in the center of the table, then deliberately pulls out one of the risers. The track crumples as a result, as does my son.
“She’s messing up the track! The track!” His voice escalates toward tears as I quickly piece the parts together, the meltdown so close it burns the back of my neck. Meanwhile, I’m calmly explaining everything: “She’s just investigating how the track works, we have to let everyone play in their own way, maybe we should try to play on our own sides.” Before two minutes have passed, the track is restored, frustrations subside, and I’m back on the sideline.
I’m always on the sideline. I’m the coach. When in doubt about the game, about life, they’ll always look to me.
What will I tell them, then, when they ask about my writing?
It came up once, fleetingly. I started thinking about an old story and pulled it up out of curiosity. It was early morning in that short free time between breakfast and daddy’s departure, when I thought I’d have a minute or two to tinker. No sooner had I opened the document than my son was at my side, asking what I was doing.
“Mommy’s doing her writing,” I said matter-of-factly, the words coming out hollow. “Some people do work at an office, and some people do work at home. Because I’m a writer, I do work at home.” There was no authority behind this statement, mostly because I didn’t believe it myself.
His face fell, as did his head. He looked at his shifting feet, shoulders swinging back and forth, then mumbled, “But I really wanted you to play with me.”
My fingers tapped the keys, debating. “I can play in a minute.”
“But I want to play now. Come play cars with me.”
“You can do something here,” I said, but with every word my resolution weakened. The guilt was just too much. How could I put this first? How could I, when my son was right there waiting?
And so the computer closed. “It’s not important anyway,” I said in my own mumble.
But as I sit on the sideline, watching them wind between each other and the track, I can see the scene so much more objectively. What had I taught him, really? That my own life’s work wasn’t important, not in the light of theirs? That it was much better to stay the edge of someone else’s game than to play your own?
They’re both important. I want the kids to know that, in the end, every life is important. The priorities of those around you should be your priorities too. But not your only priorities.
The loft bursts forth in my mind, practically in protest: How will you ever attain this? Can you bear to open that door and see nothing? Can you bear to leave them behind to find everything?
That’s the cart before the horse, I tell myself, my inner voice sounding strangely firm and calm, so much like the one I just used to diffuse their meltdown. I don’t even have to look in the room. I don’t have to give them up, either. Instead, I slip out backward and pad softly through the clutter to my desk. It’s one quiet moment that surely won’t last long. But every moment, every step, is one in the right direction. I settle into my chair and let the golden light of the window fall on my fingers. They’ll seek me out, when the bridge falls over again or someone picks up the wrong train, or when they need one of those things they still can’t manage on their own, like a diaper change or dinner. They’ll come and ask why I’m not in there.
I’ll tell them Mommy’s writing, and this time I’ll believe it.
Diana Duke is a writer, wife, and stay-at-home-mom in San Diego, California. After receiving her MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University, I embarked on the eternal quest to balance motherhood and writing, a quest continued to this day. Recent work has appeared in red. literary magazine, and she blogs regularly at http://miscellaneoustitlex.blogspot.com.
