Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.
Living the writer's dream, one dirty sock at a time
It's hard to be taken seriously as a writer these days. When people see me driving a sixteen-year-old minivan with missing hubcaps, they assume the only writing I do is the grocery list. Contrary to what my neighbors might think, I'm not unemployed, nor do I hibernate on the couch to watch Game Of Thrones for hours on while binge-eating fun-size candy bars. I actually do work, which means I spend an inordinate amount of my time staring at a blank computer screen while trying to think of something clever to write. My desk faces a window, so I'm easily distracted by the mating ritual of squirrels and the numerous dogs that mark their territory on my front lawn. I'm also privy to the people who don't bother to pick up their precious animal's poo. Yeah, I'm looking at you, Mrs. Rosenbaum, and your scrawny Shih Tzu, too.
Luckily, I have a family that supports my writing, even though my career often sabotages my intentions of running an efficient home. I can't remember the last time I ironed a shirt or used the vacuum, which explains why there are dust balls the size of Arizona tumbleweeds rolling across my floor. The dirty clothes in the laundry room are multiplying faster than a pack of feral cats, and I'm certain there's a colony of orphaned socks hiding behind the dryer.
Some days I'm plagued by writer's block, and all I have to show after sitting at my desk for six hours is a daisy chain made of paper clips. But on a good day with enough coffee to fuel the creative spirit, my muse goes into overdrive and there's no stopping me. This also means there is no time to make dinner, and my family is forced to forage in the freezer for whatever unidentifiable food they find entombed in plastic containers. It's amazing what they can create with stale hotdog buns and a bag of frozen carrots that were purchased when President Bush was in office.
There are other times when I'm so engrossed in my writing that I forget to shower and shave, which accounts for the increased Yeti sightings in our area. My disheveled appearance is a testament to the hours I spend at the keyboard, although it's tough explaining this to my husband, the mailman, and my embarrassed teens when their friends catch me in my cereal-stained bathrobe at 4:00 p.m. It's all part of living the writer's dream, although no one warned me that I'd also become proficient at tuning out Fetty Wap blasting from my kid's room, or ignoring the temperamental toilet that's flooding my bathroom floor. The minivan needs an oil change and the dogs are overdue for their yearly deworming, but as a writer, I can see beauty in all the chaos. Tumbleweeds and toilet rings be damned----I'm embracing the writer's life wholeheartedly, one dirty sock at a time.
-Marcia Kester Doyle
Marcia Kester Doyle is the author of the humor book,"Who Stole My Spandex? Life In The Hot Flash Lane," and the voice behind the midlife blog, Menopausal Mother. Her work has appeared in The Washington Post, Cosmopolitan, Woman's Day, Good Housekeeping, House Beautiful, Country Living, and The Huffington Post, among others.