Writing isn’t my full time job. It isn’t really even my job. Well, it currently isn’t even a job.

But I aim to write novels. Josh and I are in the final stages of finishing our debut book, and have two more completed drafts in the edit-hopper. We have another two books in the series mapped out. Barring abject failure, friendship collapse or bodily harm, this project should continue well into the foreseeable future. Whether it will extend anything beyond a dottering hobby will be up to the market and our shameless gumption for foisting this repeatedly in your face. While it would be nice to make a living writing, for now it serves as the outlet of creativity and purpose I have craved.

At some point in my life, my wife and I decided to stop just practicing and procreate. At the time I worked for a small landscape architecture firm, fulfilling my design education by creating places and spaces, while my spouse kept us living comfortable working in a multinational high-rise. A blend of logic and personal choice led me to taking on the atypical role of stay-at-home dad. Not long after the birth of my first, Josh and I decided to make something.

All parents will understand the time and energy it takes to keep a single half-functional whelp alive. Most parents will appreciate the time and energy it takes to raise even just one human child. At a minimum you are responsible for their calorie intake, basic hygiene, and health. In one moment you are going to bed when you please, eating on your own schedule, and making daily plans with another able bodied adult. The next day you are slinging a noxious concoction of powdered nutrient into the gaping maw of a screaming animal. You’re mopping shit out of folds of flesh. You’re awakened at unholy times of the night for the basest of human needs not your own. You are no longer on you-time. Then later on you have another kid and the cycle starts anew.

I will try not to digress into the extreme joys and personal fulfillment I have encountered in parenthood. They are there much more often than the trials of fluid modulation described above. This post isn’t about the ups and downs of rearing kids. What it is about, however, is how little time I have to myself.

So when do I write?

The weekend. My wife has every other Friday off, so on odd numbered weekends I sometimes get a large portion of the day where I can escape to my favorite coffee shop and just *write.* Sunday mornings I go to said coffee shop with my daughter. She drinks a hot chocolate and either makes a friend, flips through a book, or plays nicely. She is four now and is independent enough to let me enjoy my drink and start in on some edits before her mom comes to relieve me.

Secondly, I can scribble some thoughts down during the hour of nap time. That is, if I am not so wrung out that I need those precious minutes to recoup my sanity.

After the children are abed, after I’ve showered, and after I’ve had the first non-interrupted conversation of the day with my wife… sometime around 9:30 I get to sit down, breathe a sigh of relief, and open Giterary.

I find the evenings the most difficult time to get fuck-all done. I’m exhausted and kind of just want to watch Stranger Things or play a few rounds of TagPro. Hey Josh, how about a quick round of Nuclear Throne?

You are probably starting to understand why we started writing in 2012 and nothing is published yet.