Trying NaNoWriMo again! I've had two babies since the last time I tried this, and I'm already three days late. Here we go.
Once upon a time there was a little girl named.... There was a little girl named....Ethel ran into the room. "Mama! What are you doing?" Ethel scrambled onto the couch and planted herself next to her mother.
"I'm trying to write a story," replied Alanna. Ethel's cute little face wrinkled into a frown.
"Mama, can you find a cat? Can you find a cat one? Can you find a dog? How about a song on the computer? How about a song? On this computer? Tinkle tinkle little star. Ouch! My knee! Mama! I can't fold it! I can't fold it!" Alanna looked down at her two-year old daughter. She was desperately trying to fold up the hem of her spider pants to take a glance at her knee, which to Alanna's knowledge, hadn't been hit or damaged in any way since Ethel sat down. Alanna sighed. There was no way she'd get to fifty-thousand words. At this rate, the best she could do is write down everything as it happened, because it is easier than trying to come up with a story idea on her own.
Alanna realized she had just written that last sentence in peace, no prodding from her daughter, no questions. A glance to her left told her the reason. Ethel had just plunked down to sleep in mid knee-check with her hand still on her right pants leg. Alanna studied her sleeping daughter. She was envious of how easily Ethel could go from non-stop, full-tilt action to extreme sleeper in less than a minute. When was the last time I simply just laid down to take a nap? When was the last time I did any of my hobbies or read a book or watched any of my TV shows in peace and quiet. When was the last time I did anything for myself? Then she realized with a laugh that she got a massage last Saturday. Granted, it was the first one in six months, but still, that was one blessed hour of relaxing and being pampered.
Alanna got back down to business. Writing a story about a little girl was... tedious and unfruitful. Writing about herself, however, was yielding something, even if it was only her own stream of consciousness. Perhaps writing like this, just letting the words flow, was a good exercise for when she got down to writing the novel proper. It had been a long time since she concentrated on writing anything, save the letter to her pen pal and the occasional Facebook update. Those two things were, at most one page and at least 144 characters long. This was different. This was supposed to be a book. This was supposed to be an exercise in mental ability, a test to see if she could still concentrate on something long enough to produce anything worth reading. The last and longest thing she wrote was a fifty page paper back in college and that was definitely not worth reading. She received an A on it though, as everyone who finished the paper at length and on time got.
She remembered how she used to write in high school. Lots of long, flowery phrases peppered her work, which had an actual point, a thesis statement to make when all was said and done. She remembered how at some point after college, Alanna looked through her papers and creative writing assignments and wondered, "Did I actually write this?" The assignments were actually good. Why couldn't she find that spot in her brain, that creative writing treasure now?
Alanna felt her writing train slowing down. Her mind wandered to video games and other hobbies she missed. "I still haven't sewn baby shoes for Ivan," she thought to herself. Her poor 8-month-old would have to remain shoeless. She hadn't baked bread for the family in days, hadn't knit or played piano in almost years. Having children is rewarding and hard. The danger lies in having to put yourself to the side for their sake and losing yourself, transforming from "Alanna" to "Ethel and Ivan's Mom."
Wordcount: 709
