Sitrep from the misrule of the summer holidays
From a quietly conflicted parent
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This has been the longest summer holiday in the history of all of my parenting life. This is not an exaggeration, it actually has. And incredibly, it’s still going on. Oldest child returned home from university right at the beginning of June, middle-child finished her A-level exams shortly afterwards while youngest child didn’t finish his term until end of July.
Three months people!
Yes, two of these “children” are adults now, or at least that’s what it says on the paper.
I am blessed with much joy and love and a close relationship with my three fantastically healthy and bright children, of course I am, but even blessed people need some structure to their day. Need not to go into the kitchen to always find it a complete tip, need stretches of uninterrupted time to do their work, need not to always be expecting a negotiation, need not to always be feeling guilty for having to work, or worried that these same children don’t do things like read, try harder to find a summer job, exercise, use all this expanse of free time they have in constructive ways.
I am so proud of them, of course I am. Oldest child, who had a difficult time in school, is loving her acting course and have met a bunch of delightful new friends who has come to stay with us both last Christmas and this summer, and middle-child who pretty much stopped attending lessons after lockdown has, in the face of unhelpful educational policies and absolutely zero support, just passed her A-levels and got accepted onto her first choice of university, and youngest child who is worryingly lonely in his spare time isn’t struggling at all in school, and finding creative ways to pass the time at home, but even proud parents need to be able to have some time off from being proud (but still worried) parents.
And there’s nothing I like more than to hang out with them, truly, to play games, to have both silly and serious conversations, to go to the cinema, on days out, second hand clothes shopping, to cafés. There are no other people I’d rather spend my time with, apart from maybe with myself, at least occasionally, just me, on my own, in the house, with space to breathe, to think, not to speak, not to worry, to think only of what I want, to spread myself out on the sofa, to turn on some music and dance around the kitchen without getting weird stares, to day-dream without being interrupted with a request for bus money.
These children of mine are such kind and considerate people, they cheer me on, they wish me well, they encourage me to keep going and they’re happy for me to sit here in my office typing away, in fact, most of the time they don’t even notice me. Probably they don’t think of me at all, as long as I’m here, steady as a rock, available to answer questions and give advice. Because this is their privilege, not mine, and due to my own insecure upbringing I have worked hard to make it so. That they should know that I am always here for them, love them, am proud of them and enjoy their company.
I want them to know they’re always welcome, and their friends too, that this home we made for them is always here. Because the truth is, my truth is, that the moment I decided to bring them into the world, I forfeited the privilege to put myself first. But I did not forfeit the privilege to feel quietly conflicted about this very fact.
This is why I struggle through the summer holidays: I love having them at home, I love how comfortable they are, how happy, but I hate having my freedom to write, to walk and to day-dream up stories restricted.
In September two of my children will move out and I won’t see them again until Christmas, and I hereby declare that I, at that point, will allow myself to indulge in the also quietly conflicted privilege of missing them like a hole in my heart as the house rattles empty, and curiously uncluttered, around me, and as I struggle to find constructive ways to use all this expanse of time I have in front of me.
In other writing news:
My read of the week was The Future of Publishing is the Story by
(), because the current risk aversion within the industry in terms of where a published book will ultimately sit on the shelf in bookstores has lead to a stream-lined form of publishing that just isn’t very interesting. I hardly go into chain bookstores anymore, because the branches are indistinguishable from one another: paid-for-by-the-publisher-slots on the best seller shelf as soon as you enter, paid-for-by-the-publisher spaces on the tables as you snake your way in, genre shelf, genre shelf, genre shelf, genre shelf, cookery books, children’s and YA dominated by celebrity authors or brands like Bluey, Peppa Pig, The Very Hungry Caterpillar and sticker books. Where is the sense of discovery, but even more so, where is the space for imagination, for story in its own right?
I submitted the grant application, or actually it’s an application for a Fellowship. It’s been weeks of work, since June I believe and it’s taken all my creative energy. AND pressing that Submit button was hard, scary. There’s an infinitesimal small chance of me being accepted, and if I am I will need to summon up all my bravery.
Submitted a Swedish picture book manuscript to six publishers. It’s doing a second round. I wrote the first draft in 2021, by 2023 I felt it was ready to submit, and it did make it into the acquisition room of two publishers, but was ultimately declined. Now I’ve tweaked and changed the title, and sculpted the sentences to make the underlying theme shine through more clearly. We’ll see.
Found out that short story number eleven didn’t place. It was a standard rejection, but soon after I got a private message from the competition organisers telling me that they wanted me to know that it had made their internal longlist.
Managed one 30 minute session of research note typing, and am 20 pages off finishing the reading of another book for research. Only five books to go, so far. More could be added as new information is revealed.
Had the final meeting with my mentee which completes our year together and it’s been such a joy.
Opened the document of the story I want to begin writing again next week, the simple act of opening a document is not to be sneered at - it sets the intention.
Currently reading Under the Volcano by Malcom Lowry.
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Thank you for sharing the post, Lisa! And good wishes for navigating the love/loss versus freedom, come September.