Feature: The Writer's Lot

By Cathy C. Hall

Is there a writer out there who has the perfect situation? I mean, besides your basic hairdresser/reality TV star/writer?

If it’s not one difficulty, it’s another. There’s the mom whose writing time is constantly interrupted by the toddlers who insist upon regular care and maintenance. Or the office worker who gets up at four in the morning to write-and then gets fired because he falls asleep on the job. And of course, there’s the diligent would-be novelist who manages to sandwich in fifteen minutes of writing a day, including Christmas. Then, when this writer’s decade-in-the-making opus is finally completed, a truck slams into her, just as she’s dropping it in the mailbox. “Save my manuscript!” she hollers from the ambulance. Such is the writer’s lot in life.

But let me give you one more scenario, in five simple words: Work-at-Home Writer Shares Office with Work-at-Home Husband. Maybe that’s eight or nine words, but you get the picture. And it’s not a pretty one.

Morning Wake Up

The day begins for me, the work-at-home writer, at around 7:40 when work-at-home husband bounds into the bedroom to begin his toilette. Dearest husband has already been up and about for hours, deeply involved in all kinds of business activities, which for reasons known only to him, revolve around watching sports highlights on TV. But 7:40 is the hour that husband has chosen to bathe, and bathing calls for deliberate walking to the dresser, yanking out drawers, and muttering under one’s breath about favorite underclothes not being clean. After fetching second-class underclothes, husband must stomp to the bathroom where the shower is turned on. Now, I defy anyone to hear water running and not have to get up to use the facilities. So, at 7:50 AM, my husband and I meet, two strangers in the light, exchanging hostile glances.

Mid Morning Rituals

Around 10:00 AM, I, the writer, like to bring a hot cup of tea into the office and settle into some serious writing. The first step of this process involves a bit of “sensory stimulation,” including, but not limited to, bedazzling jewels, the wonders of alchemy, or very cool-looking Oriental tiles. All of which is necessary to the business of writing. Why, I don’t know any writer who can sit down, turn on the computer, and actually begin work. I’ll bet even Tolstoy engaged in the home version of Russian roulette before hunkering down with War and Peace. I, on the other hand, am often cut short in the midst of my morning brain-expanding ritual by the snide chiding from the other side of the office. It’s a wonder I can produce a single word.

The Nooner (Or Thereabouts)

Just when I, the writer, am hitting my stride in the scathingly brilliant manuscript before me, dearest husband’s stomach is hitting its stride in the growling department. It is then, deep in my “writer’s high,” when husband will invariably announce, “I’m going to eat!” If said husband actually left the office, and did, in fact, eat, all would be well. But that is not what said husband does. First, he (loudly) pushes the rolling chair away from the desk. I am still type, type, typing away, in the “zone”, as we writers like to say. Next, said husband will rise and repeat, (in a louder voice), “I’m going to eat!” I will continue to sit, typing frantically so as not to lose the “zone”, because honestly, I cannot figure out exactly what is called for from me, the writer, in this instance. Still, I am not completely unsympathetic, so very often, at this juncture, I will say, “Okay.”

Husband makes his way to the kitchen where presumably he hunts and gathers the food (extra loudly) while I try to pick up the scattered pieces of my writing brilliance. After an hour or so of bumbling around looking for the “zone” and with my “writer’s high” deflated, I head to the kitchen to prepare my own repast. Passing through the family room, I spy husband peacefully napping on the couch, happily snoring in his own little zone. I would be remiss if I didn’t let him know my whereabouts, so I give him a little shake, and announce (loudly), “I’m going to eat.”

Mid-Afternoon Fun ‘n Games

By the time husband toddles back to his desk to “wrap things up for the day,” I, the writer, am frantically trying to get something, anything, done. The brilliant manuscript has been set aside and replaced with a web-content piece on why skunks spray. My first explanation (“because that’s the way God made them”) has been rejected by the Powers-that-Be in Editor World, so there’s nothing to be done for it. Research is demanded, links and all.

Husband, on the other hand, is winding down. So, now he’s added another interesting element to the home office situation: music. Of course, music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, or breast, or both, for all I know. But the kind of music reverberating off the walls of the home office would give Alice Cooper himself a savage headache. But woe be to me, the writer, if I shout anything about the choice of music. Apparently, head-banging music from the 70’s is a requirement for husband to reach optimum business wrapping-up capacity. The article, finally finished by the 5:00 deadline, is a rather unique piece called, “School’s Out For Summer Because the Skunk Stunk Up the Building.”

So, in conclusion, before you, the writer, start bemoaning your trying lot, let’s remember to keep things in perspective. It’s a lot worse for me.

Cathy C. Hall is a humor writer from the metro Atlanta area. She's published in adult and children's markets, including magazines, newspapers, anthologies, and webzines. Cathy's currently working on a funny YA paranormal novel, so if you're an agent, call her. And she means like a real agent-not that creepy guy who lives next door. Visit her website for more info: www.cathy-c-hall.com.