Writing in Fractured Time
By Abigail Kemske
“Just write it already,” my husband said, taking our drool-soaked baby from my tired arms. He was welcomed home, yet again, to me blabbering away about ideas for a novel. The words I held back all day, waiting for someone who could comprehend me, someone who could talk about more than the alphabet, animals’ sounds, the number of blocks in the tower.
They were the words I needed to hear. But, after a day of diapering and potty training, playing and soothing, snack-making and breastfeeding, reading Little Blue Truck for the thousandth time. After a day of half-eaten meals piled on the counter, stumbling through minimal chores in the exhausted haze only a parent of small children can understand, how was I supposed to do that?
Scheduled time alone and coffee. Lots of coffee.
At first, an hour or two at a coffee shop on the weekends was pure bliss, but it was hard to make progress. Soon I became ravenous for quiet, for solitude, counting down the seconds until the golden hour of naptime so I could work on a scene. However, my children were nap aversive. They weren’t reliable, independent sleepers until early elementary ages.
Life was (and still is) hardly ever quiet. The time was never enough. And deep down I knew if I kept waiting around for that perfect moment, if I relied on pristine solitude, I would never get anything done. So, I learned to make routines in the chaos, to create quiet spaces in the noise, to use everyday interruptions to my advantage, and just write.
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Writing in stolen moments.
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If my kids weren’t going to cooperate (because let’s be honest, when do children ever really cooperate when we need them to) I knew I had to do things differently.
Cue in the cellphone.
It was and still is my most accessible tool, the one thing I always have with me. I much preferred writing with a spiral bound notebook and a purple Pilot Precise V5. However, running into another room to grab the supplies at an opportune moment was always sabotage. It’s like my kids had sonar for Mom is going to do something for herself, and it was their mission to intervene. The cellphone was easy, stealthy, the best tool to steal a moment of time.
But I didn’t like it at first. The tiny screen, the clunky word processing. It was difficult working on an actual manuscript. I trained myself to use it anyway.
As a former educator, I knew how focus takes practice, that sitting down and writing for an extended period of time is like a muscle that needs training. I knew that learning to write on the phone, to turn on my focus like a light switch, to write in the in-between would take time.
I started with a reliable moment of quiet—feeding my baby. My oldest had gotten used to my unavailability during that time, and I usually just scrolled on my phone anyway. All it took was perfecting the position of the nursing pillow to better free my hands, then I could thumb away in the Notes App to the crackling music of an overused toy piano in the other room, cat curled up at my feet.
After a while, I searched for more fragments of time. I started showing up early to playdates or taking extra time running errands to give in to my three-year-old’s request to play another David Bowie (yes David Bowie) song if it meant I could jot down a thought or two in the car. When it came time to introduce TV, I wrote much to the ding-ding of Daniel Tiger’s trolly. If I found a magical moment of my oldest zooming toy cars around the room, and the baby cooing at the cat, I let the chores wait. I seized the opportunity.
My projects had to be broken down into small, digestible snacks. I found it best to make bulleted lists of ideas, lines of dialogue, setting details, because word processing was too frustrating on a phone. When I had my scheduled time at the computer on a later date, I could go through the note like a to-do list, often resulting in less wasted time settling in to a too-short writing session.
Even though my time was never consistent, my effort was. That’s the important thing. A few sentences a day adds up. It may have taken me six years to finish the first draft of my to-be-revised novel partly due to my inexperience, but mostly due to my hands literally being full. And I did it all in stolen moments.
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Accepting interruption.
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Some days a moment of quiet was just impossible. Over time, I learned two things: life will interrupt your writing, life should interrupt your writing.
Now, I’m not talking about giving into the distractions of the phone, the incessant buzzing of notifications much like the persistent squeal of a mosquito you can’t seem to squash. I’m all for the do not disturb setting.
I’m talking about the illnesses, the to-do list, the visiting in-laws, birthday parties, errands, the long line at the DMV, chauffeuring of kids to all the activities. These moments make up our lives. These moments make up your characters’ lives too.
It took this mind-shift to see these interruptions as opportunities. Time away from the usual allows the mind to wander, ideas to percolate, inspiration to come through the seemingly normality of life.
Almost the entirety of my flash piece, “The Time You Thought You Were Allergic to Tylenol After Your Father Died,” was written fully interrupted. I had been folding the endless pile of laundry, when there was a nagging, worm-like itch in my ear, a sensation that sparked a strange image in my mind’s eye. I seized it, jotted it down on my phone, then returned to folding the laundry. But words kept coming, so I kept stealing this moment away. Maybe my kids got an extra TV show. Maybe they waited a few minutes after for me to finish so we could play that promised board game.
My elbows turned numb from resting on the dryer as I tapped away. Laundry was scattered all around in various states of folding. My fifteen-week-old Maine coon kitten nibbled at my toes. Briefly, I’d toss a toy for him, check on the kids, fold a pair of underwear. The movement was just enough to keep the thoughts flowing, returning to the phone before they disappeared like a burning piece of tissue paper.
I was able to write this way because I had practiced writing in fractured time.
Even though my kids are older now and my schedule more predictable, I still find myself stealing these quiet moments, writing in the midst of interruption. I can often be found pulled off to the side of the bike trail furiously tapping lines of dialogue or hands-free texting myself on the school commute the things I don’t want to forget or phone in hand, hovering around half-done chores.
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En route retreat.
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A writing retreat can provide a new place, uninterrupted time, and rest, so one can find the inspiration and energy needed for creativity.
But what if time away just isn’t in the cards?
I couldn’t even dream of a retreat until recently, now that my kids are tweens. However, just as I stole moments of quiet to write, just as I learned to accept interruption, I also learned that everyday life is an inspiration. Every walk, every drive, every weather event, every game of four square, every over-heard conversation are all opportunities if we create the space in our mind to accept them.
Again, this takes practice. It might not be natural to always be observing, to be in tune to your own mind, to what you find intriguing or interesting, to gather inspiration from your en route life, your at-home residency.
I first learned this practice during an online class from the wonderful Beth Gilstrap, a writer and educator. She called the exercise Hunting and Gathering. Basically, the idea is to go on a walk, observe the world around you, and jot down things you notice. It’s that simple. If inspiration strikes, you write more. If not, you have something to use later.
Some things I’ve gathered over the years: an abandoned electric toothbrush in an airport terminal, a black lab breaching an invisible fence to drop a hockey puck at my feet, a deflated Santa draped over the rooftop like shedded snakeskin.
As I write this, none of these have made it into my stories, but they are details I found interesting, things that felt like they belonged to something I haven’t yet discovered.
This practice can be done anywhere, at a museum or people watching at the mall, parked in the pick-up line at school, on the bus, at the coffee shop. I hunt and gather everywhere I go. I’ll add to my list lines from tv shows or movies that strike me, the outfit someone is wearing, the way the light casts through the trees, the sound of the dried prairie grass in the wind.
An important image from my Pushcart nominated story “I’ll Sell You a Dream” was gathered in this way. I had started the story in Beth’s class, but struggled to finish it to my liking. It wasn’t until I saw my daughter at her first soccer game, being more interested in the dandelions on the field than kicking the ball, that the image, the idea I needed in order to pull the story together was made.
Over the years, this habit has expanded to several additional documents: general writing ideas, speculative ideas, lists of potential titles, expanding into a separate note for each of my in-progress stories. This allows me to be present in my creative mind throughout the day, to tap into the hum at the back of my mind at any moment. The one challenge I currently face is organization of these notes, but that’s a topic for another day. For now, I read through the lists when I’m stuck on a story or need inspiration. I’m often surprised by what I’ve found.
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The best part about learning to write in stolen moments is that my in-progress story will live in my head as I go about my day. Scenes and dialogue play in the background of my mind like a soundtrack to a video game. I’ve learned to write through distraction, often using it to my advantage. Since taking Beth’s class a few years ago, I have internalized the hunting and gathering exercise, and my stories have benefitted.
With some searching and a bit of practice, quiet can be created, time can be made, and inspiration can be gathered from the everyday in order to write through the daily chaos of life.
AUTHOR BIO
Abigail Kemske is a Pushcart-nominated writer. Her fiction is published in Across the Margin, Vast Chasm Magazine, Apocalypse Confidential and more. She graduated twice from the University of Minnesota with a B.A. in English, and a M.Ed in English Education. Previously, she worked as a middle school English teacher. New York born and Wisconsin raised, Abigail now lives in the suburbs of Minneapolis, MN with her spouse, two children and their cat. She can often be found wandering the nearby forest, delighting in her senses. Follow her on social media @abigailkemske and her website abigailkemske.com.
Angry Gable Press 