“Go dig a hole, kids. Daddy needs a nap. I mean, to write. Daddy needs to write.”
I’m finding that being a “stay-at-home dad” considerably more difficult when my kids are actually at home. Was this in the contract? Did someone say something about kids? Details, details. I prefer the title, “Writer-in-Residence,” but my children don’t seem to grasp that this means I have to write in the residence.
“Daddy, why are you on the computer again?” they say. I refer them to Numero Cinq, but for some odd reason, they prefer Nickjr.com. Kids!
I’ve begun working on the next installment of my series (I use this term loosely), but at this pace, I will be lapped by the current students. I’m sure the NC readership is waiting with bated breath for the next post. Patience, I urge. I’m also a bit worried that my generous NC grant will expire. I wonder if the NC moderator would consider an extension of the monthly stipend (and, since we’re at it, an extension of the lease for the Benz…I swear the miles will come off if I drive it in reverse.) More to follow…time to make oatmeal.
—Richard Farrell
I hear you, man! I’m having the least productive month since I started this program. I’m trying everything with my kids: trying to get them to do their own projects while I do mine (but then they need help), setting timers with the promise of playing with them when the buzzer sounds, letting them listen to books on tape, etc. These strategies help a little. But before the next packet is due, I will simply need to leave the house for several hours a day (leaving them with child care, of course!) because it’s impossible to write anything coherent with so many interruptions. Good luck to you!
Digging ditches helps, except for the flying shovels, dirt and rocks.
Lauren Baldwin had a fun lecture about writing with children in the last winter rez.
Of course, suspicions are being raised. There is a scandalous rumour going about to the effect that you didn’t learn ten things last semester.
Dg is right. I don’t want that gang of pitchfork-people mistaking me for Rich Farrell and knocking at my door like they did during the whole Paris Hilton poetry thing.
I learned at least 9. And I learned about Paris H.’s beautiful poetry, too, which in and of itself could be a blog-series.