Several years ago I was fantasizing aloud about what it would be like to be a full-time writer. The recipient of my reverie cut me off cold.
"Most people who call themselves writers are simply the lap pets of rich spouses," he said. He told me that being a hired gun made me no less a writer than those with literary luxury.
I went for it anyway.
Now the view from the lap is neither as venal as he predicted nor rosy as I hoped.
My spouse has a very nice lap, thank you, but not a wealthy one. After establishing the Pavlovian reponse of work/paycheck for more than 25 years it's hard to work without a firm payday or deadline. Then throw in the uncertainty that your work may not be any good and then the wrinkle that even if it's good it may not sell... ever... and this is harder than I imagined.
After 20 years trying to stay in the sidelines of the war between working and stay-at-home mothers, I now find myself in the middle of the same resentment and hostility between working and stay at home writers.
"We're all working mothers."
"We're all working writers."
The first choice was a slam dunk. Be at stay-at-home mom or feed my kid. I was her Brownie Leader and didn't miss a school play or concert, but I never had a shot at being a Room Mom. I picked my targets, did the best I could and didn't sleep much.
I never believed either side of the debate could honestly lay claim to the higher ground.
Writing at home is a choice that came after years of a splintered life. I worked hard for it. I earned it. I'm not going to apologize for it.
Yes, I know Scott Turow wrote his first novel long-hand on the El in the pre-dawn hours. And others would likely have produced at least three National Book Awards in the time I've completed one whole and two half unsold novels. They envy my time. I envy their direct deposit.
The debate as is ludricrous as the Mommy Wars. One way or another the job gets done.




Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs