The Roomba Can Wait

One of the most challenging parts of writing or being creative, for me, is noise. Outside noise. The beautiful sounds of children asking why, why, why? turned into a screeching annoyance that shatters your creative epiphany like glass. The noise of appointments that need to be scheduled, floors that need to be cleaned, dogs that need to go outside; everyday noises of a wonderful and privileged life that turn into unbearable irritations that can make your skin crawl. It is frustrating because creative sparks are so important to capture when they present themselves, but fizzle out when the noises are far too deafening and debilitating to let you capture them and embrace the creative opportunity. Outside noise is quite literally the journey of life, but during those rare creative epiphanies, it becomes paralyzing, overwhelming, all-consuming, and unrelenting.

If you’re alone without a partner to tap out to, to be able to step away and embrace the creativity to at least jot it down to return to after the kids go to bed, after the house is clean, after the dog is let out, and after the appointments are scheduled, it can be impossible to embrace that creative thought. Or if your partner needs help wrangling and managing the noise to the point where it’s just not a good time for you to step away, the loss of the spark is disheartening. The inspiration fades, and eventually it is lost. Perhaps when it is lost, as Elizabeth Gilbert suggests in the book Big Magic, it eventually finds its way into another author’s pen, another artist’s paintbrush, or another creative mind. And it is no longer yours.

So what do we do? In theory, we set aside time for writing or being creative. But that’s not always how creativity, epiphanies, and inspiration work. It’s intertwined and found within our days and sometimes we find ourselves, like me right now, sitting in a truck in a dark garage with the dog in the backseat, panting but content, after getting home from dropping your son off at the bus stop, voice-texting a note into your phone because you don’t have to clock back into work for another eleven minutes. But still, within the eleven minutes, you have to get back inside to prepare the upstairs to run your Roomba while you work so some of the noise can be quieted for when you get off work, in hopes that inspiration will strike again during those few minutes between work and more noise.

A part of me envies celebrity authors and creators who have nannies and assistants to allow them freedom to take time away from the noise where it becomes easier to embrace inspiration when they are struck with it. However, I acknowledge that even with unlimited time and resources, inspiration cannot necessarily be scheduled.

Capturing inspiration is like fishing. You are given the pole, the hook, the bait. You wait for something to bite, and when it does, you have to set the hook at just the right moment. If there’s too much noise, you lose the opportunity to set the hook and catch the fish.

I published four of my six books within a two-year time frame. This was while I was working full-time, being a single mom, a homeowner, a pet owner, etc. I am still all of those things, except now I am no longer a single mom, but rather the mother of two children and I have a life partner. I attribute my ability to write and publish those books partly because of the insomnia I suffered with. You’d be surprised by how quiet the noise is at 1:00 in the morning. It is merely a gentle hum in the background. I was also able to produce those books because I shared custody of my one child at the time with his father, and I was able to use evenings for creativity when he was with his dad.

Now, I have a daughter along with my son, and it is a damn beautiful thing. However, the noise has grown louder and is now nearly a constant. Also, I no longer suffer from insomnia.

Losing the ability to be creative more often than I used to be makes me wonder if I’ve lost a little part of myself, particularly when I’ve been hit with those creative sparks that have since vanished into thin air because I wasn’t able to make time for them. Perhaps those sparks weren’t meant for me anyway. Thankfully, I’ve gained new opportunities. These are scheduled speaking events and presentations across the country on a topic I’m passionate about. And I love these moments just as much as I loved being creative with pen and paper. But it’s different; I sometimes wish I had limitless capacity for both.

So here I am, wrapping up the last four minutes of my morning break, struggling between my current, beautiful life and the past when I had a smidge more time to create. And you know what? I wouldn’t change it for the world. I wouldn’t go back. Trace Adkins reminds us, “You’re going to miss this. You’re going to want this back. You’re going to wish these days hadn’t gone by so fast.”

The destination gives us direction, but the journey (and the noise) gives us life. I don’t care that I’m sitting in my truck in the dark garage voice-texting on my phone. I have my daughter and son, I have my life partner, I have my pets, I have my six books and a second edition of one of those books, and I have upcoming speaking events that I know will create change for the better. And when I can, I transcribe notes in my phone in hopes that when the noise quiets, I can return to the inspiration I was gifted with.

Maybe my next book will begin as a note in my phone in a dark garage. Maybe the next spark will come to me in the shower, the grocery store, or on the highway between daycare and a soccer game. Maybe I’ll have to write just eleven minutes at a time.

And that’s okay.

I haven’t lost the part of myself that creates. I’ve simply had to find new places for her to exist. I don’t miss the life I was living in my early thirties. Perhaps I simply miss the less restricted access I had to the creative parts of it.

Sometimes I’m an author. Sometimes I’m a speaker. Forty hours a week, I’m a full-time employee. Sometimes I’m a mother with a thousand things to do and an idea I desperately want to write down.

And sometimes I’m sitting in a truck, in a dark garage, with a panting dog in the backseat, realizing I’ve just spent the remainder of my morning break doing exactly what I thought I no longer had time to do.

The Roomba can wait.

With love,
Danielle