Somehow I came out of school with the notion that I could do everything I wanted all at once and be wildly successful at it. Of course, back then, I measured success by the qualifications I earned and what other people thought of me.

I’m a lot older, and a little wiser, but I still regularly fall into the same trap of trying to do everything very well. Inevitably, I fail and feel much worse for it. When I’m assessing my day and there’s washing all over the sofa, I forget about the writing I’ve done. And vice versa.

There’s always the difficulty of prioritisation. It’s hard to assess the value of doing something with uncertain outcome. My husband encourages my writing ambitions, but day to day, tidying the kitchen has more immediate and discernable impact for good on the family.

But after eight years of regular writing, I have only just realised I tend to be more creative the less pressure I’ve put on myself.

I had a surprisingly satisfying day, yesterday. And it had to do with the limitations of a small son off school, and realising I had a week to get prepared for the holidays. Of course, because I wasn’t demanding my brain came up with ideas immediately, and because it wasn’t clogged up with housework-related guilt, it did.

I might need to do more cleaning. For the good of my writing

 

 

 

 

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