I’ve been doing it for awhile now, I just haven’t mentioned it. Once you mention it, people ask about it. And then, suddenly, it’s a thing of stress. So…shhh. Pretend I didn’t say this out loud: I’ve been writing fiction. (Or trying to write fiction.)
And I like it.
Quite a few months ago I signed up for a week-long fiction writing workshop at the University of Iowa. Up until two weeks ago, I didn’t know if the workshop would be cancelled or not, due to flooding. (It seemed tacky to call during a state of emergency: “Um, hi. Sorry you lost your house and everything, but what about my class?”)
I had to scramble to find a new hotel since the one I had booked is closed until August, but classes are on.
And while I don’t know exactly what I’ll be doing all week, I know what I won’t be doing: laundry, cooking, childcare, driving children around to birthday parties and playdates, keeping a two-year old safe at the swimming pool, sweeping the floor, cleaning the bathroom, or even, not that I actually do this every day, making my bed.
I was going to ask you to pray for me while I’m away, but maybe your prayers should be directed to Llama Papa instead. Have I mentioned here before what a great guy he is? He is. Great.