A good friend has two boys, a dog two cats and of course, her husband who works in a stressful journalism job, as she does.
I try explaining to her that sometimes, I just can't find any peace, and she tells me, "Just come to my house. You won't have time to think about peace."
She's right, I know. I have so much peace sometimes I ought to feel guilty about it, holed up in my office with only one or two projects to work on. Sure, I have six animals and sometimes crazy demands as a self-employed writer, but usually, my seas are calm.
At least those on the outside are. See, that's the problem. Inside, my mind is a vortex of wildly competing thoughts that all want my attention. Some are mundane, and they scream loudest ... Out of coffee again ... Need dog food ... Don't forget clothes in dryer.
Then there are the mid-range screamers ... Got to run story past editor before filing ... Got to interview that director today because she's out of town next week ... Stories for next newsletter due Friday.
Barely heard above the din, yet pleading at all times, are these thoughts from the population of my novel ... Where is the narrator going next ... Are you sure about her name yet? ... Is she really going to marry him or just pine for him? ... No, you're not going to let that character die are you? What are you going to do in the next chapter?
And on and on. With all those voices inside, I am living with a secret posse following me all the time, who expects more than I've got time for that day. So to keep all that racket from driving me nuts, I have to quell the exterior world's chaos as much as possible.
That means living a very monkish life at times. Minus the frugality. A girl has got to have new shoes every once in a while. At least that's what the voices say.