Before, I could always say ... gee, I wish I could write more of my own stuff, but I have to work for my living. What will I use for an excuse now? This essay, by A. O. Scott in the New York Times Book Review, provides a blueprint. I'm going to quote liberally from it, because it articulates an exhaustion I've long felt but seldom read about. The italics are mine.
Olsen was a writer her whole life — she died in 2007 — but she didn’t write much. Not because she was blocked or lacked material. The blockage — the obligation of earning a living and tending children, the “immersion” in caring that was a source of fulfillment as well as frustration — was the subject matter. The silence that surrounds those stories is its own kind of statement.
Is there a place in literature — in our canons and course listings, in our criticism and theory — for unwritten work? ... Literary ethics prompts us to attend to the unheard and the marginal; curiosity or impatience with the same old stuff sends us in search of the forgotten and the neglected. But what kind of attention do we owe — what kind of attention is it even possible to pay — to the unvoiced?
I'd have to go back to an essay by Ursula Le Guin, "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle Writes the Books," to find words that so perfectly describe the unique challenges facing the woman who raises children, makes a home, holds a job and dares call herself a writer.
It's a topic I soon hope to explore with renewed relish — or at least, that's the plan.