Picking Dandelions

I've never had one of those fancy little counters on my site that tells me (and you) what my word count is on various works in progress. The reasons for this are varied. One is I am technologically deficient and adding one requires having the ambition to figure out how it works. One is that I usually have so many works in progress in various stages of so-called progress, that I could easily have five counters. Sometimes I stop work entirely on a book because the Muse is calling on another book, or because an editor is anxious to see a proposal.

But another, the main, reason is my output varies. I have whole weeks in which I don't write more than a paragraph, and weeks in which I produce 100 pages.

Part of this is I have four kids. And the baby is 2. For those of you without kids--or those for whom the "Terrible Twos" is a distant memory--this particular age is a period of frustration--on both our parts. He has suddenly become very verbal, which means no matter what I am doing, he taps me on the arm, holds up an object, and says "What is this?" I will say something like "It's a statue" or "It's a candle." To which his reply is always very scientific and thoughtful, and never varies, "AHHHHHHHHHHH, a candle." "AHHHHH, a statue. Thanks." I am also training him to spout certain political slogans and to recognize key political figures. Often with the label "neo-fascist"--but I digress. His interrupting me is OK, but there can follow the period known as the "meltdown." If he cannot say a word or I don't understand him, he gets, in a word, pissed. And thus begins a meltdown that can involve splaying himself face down on the floor, some kicking and screaming, and, in general, tears.

Try to output ANYTHING with that little drama going on multiple times a day.

So. . . . for the first time in my life, I have hired a nanny. This is a part-time arrangement, she is my age, lovely, and I hope she can teach him some more Spanish (Daddy is Mexican, so our kids have a smattering of Spanish, but none of us is bilingual by any stretch).

Yesterday was day one. Let me tell you, it was utterly strange. FOUR whole HOURS of no munchkin in my office having a hissy fit. It was a tantrum-less day.

So now . . . . now . . . . do the math. I manage to write three books and several proposals a year NOW. What will happen with this new arrangement? My output should increase exponentially! I told my agent to "brace for it." I already am amazed at what I can do with an uninterrupted hour because I have a really intense focus.

But the point of this post isn't that I have 16 whole child-free (relatively--he's one room away in the playroom and I still eat lunch with him) hours a week to write. It's that all along I have respected the fact that "life happens." I have never beaten myself up over word counts, sh*tty weeks in which I wrote nothing but crap . . . none of it. I understood that in the grand scheme of an entire life span, this has been but a blip. And there has never been a counter, because having one somehow, to me, seemed to be a Scold-o-Meter. I read too many blogs where writers beat themselves up over it. Or others that were downright . . . rigid about HAVING to write x number of pages a day--no excuses.

Excuses? I always had plenty. And never for once felt bad about it. If my child wanted to go pick dandelions--our favorite activity--we did.

So I'm curious . . . what is your take on your output? Writing goals? Word count meters?

Peace,
E