Last night, I opened up Scrivener for the first time in what seemed like months and looked at my work in progress. I had written some of it during the creative writing class I taught in my middle school, which ended in December, and even then, I had just opened the file to type in what I had written on paper, which was no more than a few typed pages. But last night was different.
I have a writing buddy now. My neighbor turned friend turned writing buddy lives upstairs. We see each other many hours a week. I am her youngest child’s godmother. Many years before we even met, she published a novel. But she now has three kids and PTA functions and the rest of her life, and she’s having trouble finding time to write. I don’t have nearly as many things to do, but I, too, have trouble carving out that time.
I’ve been hoping I could find someone to write with a couple of times a week just so I had some dedicated time, but I had nowhere to turn, really. I didn’t want to propose it to her because I know her time is limited, and why would she want to write with me? Yesterday, however, she emailed me and asked if I’d be interested in short, 40-minute writing sessions two times a week after the kids are asleep. Of course I said yes.
It was interesting spending this writing time with her, in her dimly lit apartment, with the two oldest children snoring in a tent on the floor a few feet away. (The youngest is sleep training and tends to wake the older two. The older two feel like they’re camping out every night. It works.) I’ve spent many hours in her apartment, some of which were writing hours. I wrote the first story I had published in this apartment while watching her kids on Wednesday nights. But I’d never actually had writing time with her.
It got me pumped. I read through my newest, long-neglected project, and I liked it. I really liked it. I also wrote a bit. And I relished in this type of time with my good friend – peaceful, uninterrupted, and productive.
More hours should be like this.