The last few days my energy level has picked up and I determined to fix up some things that needed fixing, starting with the front window sun-blocking screen that came down. I spent all day yesterday puttering around doing tasks that needed to be done in and around my house.
Then last night I dreamed that I was at a party and there were no less than four literary agents there, friends of my cousins and friends, that I was interacting with socially. More than one asked me, "So what do you write?" And when I told them they said, "I want to read that." One even whipped out her laptop and asked if she could download my book and start on it right away.
And I was ashamed because it's not done. Oh, it's written all the way through. And I even know what needs to be done to fix it up (beginning is done, transition to middle needs work but it's only one chapter, middle is fantastic, ending needs less of one character and more of another--all easy, quick fixes, actually). But it's not actually done. And I haven't worked on it for months.
I woke up with the firm realization that anyone can fix up a house, but my work is raising kids and writing. Nobody else can do those things. Nobody can do it for me. Nobody can do it instead of me. This is the work I feel driven to, inspired about, made for, enlivened by.
Now how to fit it in? Inspiration is colliding with practical necessities. If something has to give, I hope I have the courage and wisdom to still do the things that nobody else can do.