My So-called Professor Life

Now that my MFA is complete, the paperwork all filed, the degree shipped my home address and framed in my office, I have this nice neat title. It's pretty and shiny and useful; it helped me get a job teaching college. I teach part time at UVU while continuing to teach part time at a local high school. Work load combined, it's exactly like having a full-time job. 

And I'm a parent. I have to help the kids get ready for school almost every day. When they get home, I make sure they have snacks. I make dinner, I help with homework and wash the dishes. I listen to them whine about their chores--feeding the dog or wiping down counters--and then I hold a dance party in the kitchen before we all lose our minds. 

This is my life. Teaching, grading, working out, sleeping, dancing, cleaning, bathing (on occasion), and more grading. Did you notice the missing piece? (Hint: You wouldn't have noticed if you're not a writer.) I HAVEN'T BEEN WRITING. There's been the sparse scribble in church. A frenzied typing before a scout meeting. Lunch break chicken scratches on a napkin. This is nothing. I went from about eighteen hours a week of WIP time to having a handful of minutes to type an essay. A short one. 

A writer who doesn't write feels lost. Distracted. Fogged by a feeling that something is missing. The memory goes wonky. Appointments are missed. Our office chairs forget the shape of our butts. Our hearts flicker out and fall like the ash of a cigarette. 

But I know the remedy. And so I type. 

BICHOK. Butt in chair. Hands on Keyboard. 

Love your guts, 

Rena

(P.S. An essay of mine will be published in Pinball this month. More to come.)