It was a pretty tense time in the house of Tania L Ramos last night. Yeah, I was probably the cause of it, but I prefer to think it has something to do with Jupiter aligning with Batman, or something to the likeness. Anyhow, in my near frothing state of having to have a moment’s peace and quiet, I was unable to find one. How did I push out two books in one year before? Oh, that’s right, I was on disability and sat at Starbucks consuming caffeine and Izzes for ten hours out of the day for an entire year.
Checked my disability numbers last night: not much in the way of aloting another year off. So I step away from my precarious perch, with toes curled over the top step of an eleven step decline. Time to reconsider my approach. I realize I can’t keep up my pace of staying up at all hours of the night, because even then there are so many noises and distractions around me. Everyday manages to be some Calgon Take Me Away day, yet it never comes, and even if the opportunity arose there would undoubtedly be some child pounding on my door, complaining about some adolescent crises, whether it be, “I think I broke my thumb skating,” to, “My ponies are arguing again. How do you spell ‘effective communication’?” Then there is the adult I seem to really torture who will inevitably ask, “What’s wrong with you? Maybe we should talk? Did I do something wrong?” And I pull out all my hair and just yell, “ALL I WANT TO DO IS WRITE IN QUIET WITHOUT PRETENSE!” Ah, the fun never ends, the noise never dies down, and alas, I am rarely alone … but always having to effectively communicate.
So, last night, while I toured my house with laptop in hand, seeking out a quiet place that didn’t have a frigid draft, I discovered something interesting: it doesn’t exist. So I walked into my room, fit for some diabolical rage against humanity, plugged the laptop in at my desk, gave my boyfriend the look that read Are you feeling lucky punk? Well, are you? There was no effective response, so I plugged in my sticky earphones (those of you with ticking biological clocks really need to know that once you have kids, everything is sticky), turned up my sad love songs/breaking up songs/see you on the other side songs, and finally–after two weeks–opened my WIP file.
At one a.m., I had accomplished the daunting task of procuring 4,938 words. And I was proud as a new momma who doesn’t already have a gaggle of kids at home. I was hopeful, renewed, and spent. This chapter was torture, plain and simple. I mean, if the government needs a new methodical device for torture, they should have prisoners have to write a dramatic scene built with forthright carnal tensions by two characters driven together, who can’t seem to push passed their own doubting thoughts, and be thrust into these onslaughts of romantic indications whilst trying to maintain a platonic boundary that has made their friendship over nearly two decades as strong as it. Yeah, write that one suicidal car bomber!
Needless to say. That chapter left me emotionally drained, and any form of effective communication was spent on those two characters last night. If anyone in this house thinks I need some emotional therapy, they can read the book … and then they can commit me.
Tania L Ramos, Author On the Verge
Books by Tania L Ramos: Be Still and Surviving the Writing Apocalypse