Time is Wasting—M.G.Sondraal

Time slips past with alarming speed, especially as an adult, and for women of a certain age. I have so much left to do and a diminishing amount of time to complete it. I’ve been aware of this, of course, for at least a couple of decades, but the sense of urgency to just get things done grows annually.

I’ve dabbled in Swedish death cleaning, trying to purge my household of accumulated detritus of a life well-lived and an enthusiasm for crafts and projects that far-outstrips my sustained enthusiasm. I must finish these projects and move them out of the house, so my daughters don’t face the onerous task of sorting and donating piles of things for which they have no use. They already have my china, my mother’s china, my linens, my in-laws’ stuff that sit in unopened boxes downstairs to disperse eventually. I can at least rid them of soap-making, candle-making, beading, quilting, sewing and pottery paraphernalia. Or so I tell myself on occasion.

Of course, I’m not committed to purging. I’m not moving. I’m not obviously ill, though who knows what lurks within this aging body preparing to snuff me out. And so, I dabble when the mood takes me, but my resolve is quickly overwhelmed by the monumental task.

Life events prod me into frenzied action intermittently. A friend dies unexpectedly. An accident occurs. Someone is diagnosed with something dire. I accumulate sympathy and get-well cards in significant numbers, and the supplies need regular replenishment. Time is running out. Time has vanished.

I feel it with my writing as well. I enjoy writing. (Editing, beyond structural editing, not so much.) I have stories I want to write before it’s too late. Before I have a stroke. Before I develop dementia. Before some health crisis robs me of desire. Before I die.

I spent far too long suppressing my creativity while dealing with the practicalities of raising children (gifts, and so precious) and excelling in a demanding job. I don’t regret my choices. I’ve had a marvelous, enriching life, but had little energy or time to write…or more truthfully, no prioritization of time to devote to a creative outlet. It can be done, but it requires resolve to carve out those moments every day and protect them from the urgent and not-so-urgent demands of life, and I wasn’t prepared to hold myself accountable to dedicate those minutes for a fantasy of publication.

I take writing more seriously now that the hubbub has died down but may never publish. I need the validation of traditional publishing, where a team of people have vetted my work and deemed it adequate. Recognizing those myriad hoops and the time it takes to research and query agents, being published will likely never happen for me. Not when there’s all these stories queued up waiting to be written…and donation boxes to be filled, and sick friends to visit, and funerals to attend. It’s a matter of priority and publication as a goal is less important than it was at the start. I’ve learned the journey really is the most important part of the process, not the end.

But for younger writers with time to invest to search out an agent, and wait for decisions, I encourage you to hone your craft, protect your creative time, and publish, one way or another. Don’t allow yourself the excuse of being too busy. Make the space in your life to do what is important to you. Time is wasting and you have something that needs saying.

The DeadLies have written blogs for almost three years now and we’re taking a three-month hiatus to focus on WIP, gardening, decluttering, vacations, and summer sun. Enjoy our archived blogs. See you in September.