There is not enough time to do anything. Today I baked bread and cookies and did 3 loads of laundry but I want to just sit down and read and it's not going to happen because I have to fold those 3 loads of laundry. I would so welcome some time during the day when it is quiet, when I can sit out on the back patio and read books and think and write.
My life has become what I didn't want: the corporate job, the 8 to 5 job (okay, I like my work but it's still in the corporate mold, even if we are a casual office and don't have to wear suits or work in cubicles). I have become the writer at night. The writer who writes when all the cooking and cleaning and laundry is done, when the children are taken care of, when I'm so exhausted that I can barely write.
I have let Virginia Woolf's "angel in the house" swallow me. And I want some time back.
That's really enough complaining. I have to just make the time. No excuses.
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