Making Time to Write

It's 4:00am. I've just woken up to write. Puppy is asleep. Coffee is brewing. Phone is off. It's quiet. This is the new routine. I have so much work to do and not enough time to do it. For 9 hours of the day I'm at my day job. For 2 hours of my day I am commuting back and forth. For another 2 hours I am dealing with the puppy. Mornings, she is slow to wake (we are similar in this way). Once I manage to get her out of bed, we go on our walk or to the nearby field to throw ball for at least 30 minutes. When we get home, I feed her breakfast. Then she plays by stealing a shoe from my closet, or a sock from the hamper, and I chase her around the apartment. I put her in the crate while I take a shower and get ready for work. When I come home from work the routine is the same. After dinner, I try to write, but usually am so tired I end up sitting on the couch with her watching television.

When Kaz was alive, we got into a routine of taking an hour or two to ourselves after work, before dinner. I would sit at my computer, listening to music and writing. He would play video games, usually the football game Madden. Both of us would wear earphones so as not to disturb the other. Though I could still hear him vocalizing towards the screen with shouts of glee or frustration. After his game he would stand behind me and kiss my neck, "Dear, when were you thinking of making dinner?" I would respond, "Why don't you make dinner this time?" He would laugh, "Cause that's what I got you for!" I would shake my head but also laugh. He had this way of making me laugh even when I didn't want to.

I also used to write when he went on motorcycle rides. He was a devoted weekend rider and always went up to Angeles Crest Highway, a long stretch of winding, curvy road which is a haven for motorcyclists. He would be gone for about 3 hours, a perfect window of time, and when he returned we would both be relaxed and happy to see each other.

When his illness progressed, I sometimes took little writing breaks at the hospital, when he was asleep, or during a long procedure, or during his Avastin transfusions. I would write on my laptap in his room, or downstairs to the plush lobby of Cedars Sinai, or sometimes, at the Coffee Bean around the corner.

After his motorcycle accident, it was harder to write. He would stay in bed for hours, not sleeping or watching television, just lying in bed. Even though it was quiet, I found it difficult to concentrate. Neither of us wanted me to sit there with him in the silence, but it also didn't feel right to leave him alone. I would try to write, but more often would simply stare at the computer thinking of him lying awake in the dark bedroom.

After he died, I wrote obsessively for months. I wrote him letters. I wrote in my journal. I wrote in detail every memory I could muster of our time together. Good memories and bad, it was all excruciating to recall. But I was so afraid of forgetting things that I forced myself to do it. And it was cathartic.

Now, life is quite different. The only time I can get anything done is when the puppy is asleep. I'm trying to train myself to wake up a little earlier every day to take advantage of this time. I knew when I got her that having a dog would put a cramp in the writing time. But I simply have to make it work.

When do you write?