Writing *through* distraction
What it really looks like to be a writer in my pockets of time
It’s 6.30am and I’ve gotten up and into the home office ‘early’ to write. Which basically means I followed through last night on my intention to go to bed before 9.15pm, so that I could wake up with Zala and make the most of the time before Shane starts work, instead of trying to reclaim the lost hour of sleep to either a dating show on Netflix or a savagely breastfeeding toddler who loves a good boob session or twenty in the wee hours of the morning.
Maybe it’s a getting older thing, but I stubbornly refuse to give away those ‘just for me’ pleasures like devouring a season of ‘Love is blind’ in the name of portraying that I’m above reality TV. My whole being froths on human connection, intimacy and the closeness that comes from vulnerable communication. So naturally, strangers dating through a wall and having the courage to declare their love for each other, before living together with all their shit coming up and their deepest fears revealed for the world to see (ahead of a very quick marriage) is just bloody fascinating to me! Or maybe it’s because I’ve been with my partner for over 12 years and we got to completely miss the whole internet dating era and so I find the need for these kinds of shows so interesting.
Anyways, back to me winning the morning and getting my butt in the chair to write!
Despite writing for a living as a copywriter, and being a deep devotee to my own written word since I was a child, I still find myself somewhat shocked when yet again, I go to write and there is absolutely everything imaginable shouting at me through my environment and pulling me away from the deep focus I perceive I need (and I of course desire) to put one word after the other and more importantly, to begin pulling the thread of insight, remembrance and curiosity that I’ve unconsciously spun within me over the course of the week, month, or maybe lifetime.
I can hear my six year old singing the same one line from a song he heard the other day, over and over, in his innocent high pitched voice that I will cry immensely over the day it breaks in his teens.
I can hear my dad, who is visiting this week, speak in Portuguese over the phone to my grandmother who has enough of a hard time hearing in person, let alone at this hour over a phone call. I can feel myself trying to make sense of the conversation on her behalf as my dad repeats the same sentence three times.
I can see the yellow post it note on my desk with bill reminders glaring back at me, and the Substack notifications popping up on my phone (which I’ve turned on recently to inspire me to engage more often in conversations that I really want to be a part of, vs. at the end of my homeschooling day when energy levels are pretty low and uninspiring).
I’m noticing frustration arise in my chest, as I start to play out a familiar victim loop in my head… ‘why am I so easily distracted?’ ‘Why does it take me so long to shut out the noise and focus?’ ‘Why can’t everyone and everything just shut the fuck up and let me have my precious writing time?’
Deep breaths.
I let an audible sigh leave my mouth as I exhale, knowing full well how little I remember to bring intention to my breath these days and how nothing shifts my state quite as quickly. I let a smile begin to form, as I close my eyes and give my body a shake.
The singing outside my door has now turned into a heavy metal scream.
The coffee machine is now screeching at me from the other side of my office wall.
My dad and partner are now in a full conversation that I can’t keep my mind out of.
The books piled up around me are starting to encroach on my space.
I’m starting to feel hungry.
I lose my track of thought on the page for the third time in a minute.
I begin googling noise cancelling headphones, and searching for my wallet.
This morning, this writing session - none of it is going as planned.
And so, I decide to write about it.
The noise, the lost trails of thought that seem to hold no value whatsoever. The frustration, the intentions, the breaths..
What was once ‘in the way’ of my creativity is now the subject. The distractions become the storyline, the thoughts become the muse. And it leaves me noticing how less jarring it all becomes. How the sounds, sights and silent notifications of thought have actually quietened and dimmed down their glare, as they’ve found home on the page.
I notice my focus rested, for the first time. At home in its environment, despite it being the same one where it grew its restless feet.
In this very moment, I feel closer to both my life and my art. Close to the chaos and the flow. Close to both the presence, and all that has the potential to pull me away.
And I feel like I’ve unlocked some kind of secret doorway into dancing between the worlds that make up this life of mine.
A remembering that writing isn’t always about escaping from the now, or channelling something else from the ether.
Sometimes it’s actually the glue that keeps you connected to the now, so you can channel a new part of yourself that lives here and only here.
One that requires us to melt into the madness, like birth asks us to surrender into the pain. One that asks us to keep our eyes and ears open to our surroundings, because they will carry us closer, not further away.
And if I’m really honest, and think back to some of my favourite ever writing sessions where words hit the page either for myself or for my clients, it’s always the ones where you read them back and think - “where did that even come from?” - that leave me the most enriched and fulfilled in my art and self. The ones where I gave up the control, gave in to the current of now, and let all the feels move through me in the name of putting words on the page.
Knowing I can be a writer, no matter what life looks like, feels like or sounds like, is the real win for me today. Sure the extra sleep feels glorious and yes, I’ll 100% have a whinge today about the noise of my kids or my lack of focus. But knowing that I have THIS, is what really keeps my heart giddy through it all.
Tell me…
If writing, creating or even working on your passions is something you yearn to prioritise more sustainably or uncover new ways and strategies to nurture alongside your life with your family, are these kinds of posts helpful to you?
Does it support you to see, feel and live alongside me as speak to the nitty gritty of these BTS moments in dancing between creating and everyday living?
Let me know in the comments, or perhaps even share what you’re most curious about when it comes to the creative process or creative prioritisation of mamas who dance between the many roles of modern motherhood. Maybe you’ve got a cheeky tip or two for overcoming distraction? I’d love to hear about it.
And if this looksie into my mind at 6.30am, writing my heart out, was valuable to you in some way, share it with your mama friends. Let’s normalise the stuff behind closed doors and remember what it really takes to follow those passions xx
As a mama of a thee year old and one and a half year old who’s recently embarked on this journey in Substack world, reading your words gave me such a feeling of solidarity. Like you, I try my best at prioritizing a period of “me” time in my days but with children around generally I try grab those pockets of time when I can as I put less pressure on myself this way, and more often than not, something does flow out of me where I, too, read it back and think, “where did that even come from?”. I think that if the passion is there, the words are there no matter the currents of life. I think it’s the meeting of intention and moment, whatever that moment holds. x
And as I finish reading the last few words I take the biggest breath out. Seen and heard and everything in between. This is exactly what unneeded to read this morning.