Many of my writer friends are, like me, working parents: juggling literary careers and the intense, non-stop logistical operation that is running a family. We’re good at keeping dozens of balls in the air – but the first one dropped is usually time for ourselves.
That’s a mistake. Taking a moment just for yourself – doing what you love, what makes your blood rush, what makes you grin like an idiot – is key to everyone’s sanity. I think this is especially true for folks in creative jobs. It may be a key to inspiration.
I’d been searching for that inspiration for the last two months. I finished my third novel (“Speak of the Devil”) around Thanksgiving, and had been brainstorming my next book’s concept ever since. But I was exhausted from rushing to meet my deadline and getting ready for the holidays. In two months, I’d outlined several decent ideas, but none were inspired; none had that Big Book feel.
So I planned a vacation.
Back in the day, my husband and I were adventure travelers: trekking to remote outposts, drinking snake-blood martinis, scuba diving among sunken army tanks. But now I have two little sons. This time, I bowed to parenthood and booked a Jamaican resort featuring roving Sesame Street characters. [Read more…]