How to write when you have no time

Or how when you have no time you often need to prioritise writing even more

The past two weeks have been intense. Work. Kids activities. Not feeling 100%. Oh and nits. We got the nits on Sunday and I spent Sunday night soaking all our hair in lotion. This lotion didn’t wash out so I woke at two in the morning with this overwhelmingly itchy head. I had to come downstairs and watch TV. The nits were either trying to kill me by exacting revenge, or they were dying and biting me at the same time. I think if I was a nit I’d do the same- like you want to go out in a blaze of glory right?

One last bite before you disappear forever.

We went to school/work with greasy hair (still itching) and then on Monday night I repeated the same routine- lotion, waiting, washing our hair about 4 times. Our hair was greasy on Tuesday too. We all have long hair. So the nits had a lot of places to hide out. I tried not to let it get me down as there are bigger fish to fry right now, but truth is it really got me down. I couldn’t sleep. I felt like a turd. The kids were cranky.

I didn’t write anything for a whole week.

Eventually the nits seemed to have passed. The hairbrushes are all washed. And the towels. At the same time the kids have been fighting almost non stop. Their fights are physical and often involve objects that are used to hit one another. It is like Little Rabbit Foo Foo every damn day. I have become relentlessly snappy. It’s been so bad some mornings that I’ve had to walk out of the room. Then quite a big project at work. Lots of life admin. I forgot my anniversary which I never usually do, then remembered at the very last minute. My friend lost her mum and I felt like I couldn’t offer much consolation. I was still itching my head despite the fact the nits had disappeared. I couldn’t focus on what was important and what was trivial.

I know when I’m overwhelmed because I start dropping balls. There are a lot of balls for the modern woman to drop. I forgot to reply to messages. I forgot that a guy was coming over to look at the broken shower. I had this feeling that I was a piece of Velcro and I was speeding through the week just gathering more and more stuff sticking to my back- things to do, messages to reply to, a trip to the post office (with a parcel I’ve carried for 3 days with baby clothes for my sister)…and no time to write.

I still didn’t write anything.

When I write it is often done in small windows of time. I might start writing something in a work break. Or pick something up in the evening. At the moment by the evenings I am a zombie- gurgling, snacking, watching TV. A slob. A dried up tea bag of a chick. Thinking about nothing but the next day and how I will get through to the end of the week.

The thing is that this is the time when you need to double down on writing. The time when you’re feeling overwhelmed. Or whatever your thing is. It might be running. Or it might be fantasising about the guy (s) from Saltburn or it might be anything but you need to get busy with your jam.

I have started using that term now- my jam. Writing is my jam. Sorry I’m cringing but it’s such a good word.

But how to fit it in? Well this busy-ness is a modern problem. So here’s my plan:

I’m writing this right now. Whilst I’m writing it I am still feeling those phantom nits crawling through the nape of my neck. One of them is in fact whispering in my ear and he’s saying - ‘That book. The new one…well it’s not going to write itself is it?’

Then there’s another nit and this is a large female one who is just crawling out of my left ear and she’s saying - ‘Just write a substack post and start from there. Then you’ll find your inspiration will return.’

One more nit has crawled out of my parting and is dangling between my eyes on one strand of blonde/grey hair: ‘You can find the time to write for ten minutes right? Just dedicate yourself to doing ten minutes and then see where you end up!’

And then there’s one final nit- this is the very first one that bedded down in my long, tired hair around Saturday afternoon, when I was at this kids party and could feel that first itch but didn’t want to say anything.

‘My life is over but yours isn’t. As long as you’re breathing you must write. Keep going.’

And with that last bit of advice that nit disappears into the ether. Maybe he’ll be a famous writer next time. Maybe there is no after life. Maybe this is it.

I’m alive. I’m lucky. And I’m writing again.