When we were little, time took longer. It did. Summer vacations lasted forever. Next week was far away. Next month almost unimaginable. We knew we would grow up one day; I can remember figuring out with my friends how old we would be in 2000. But the age seemed unreal. It was simply too far in the future.
I've discovered over my years as a mother, summer vacations also seem to last forever, albeit now, for slightly different reasons.
Now time seems to pass too quickly. How did it become Friday already? Where did last week go? Another year gone by again? For me, this is sad, but true.
When I write is when I've become aware how truly elastic time can be. I look at the clock before I start as I've got children to pick up from school, household errands, chores, etc. Time seems to stay on its regular course as I go through my pre-writing rituals. But when I actually open up the document and start tapping away? (or swearing, depending on my mood) Where does the time go? Suddenly it's an hour later. Or two. I can always tell when (and if) I hit the three hour mark because that's when my brain starts to fry.
I've read blogs or facebook updates or whatever where writers write 'I wrote for 8 hours today'. This always makes me feel very small and somewhat of a pretender. I've never written for that long. Ever. Not even finals were that long. How is this possible? I can get my head around working on my present project for long periods, but not actually writing the whole time. My words would become gobbledegook. My sentence structure would go flying out the window. I know I'd start writing things which amuse the heck out of me, but have absolutely no place in my plot. And then, delete, delete, delete.
I'm sure there are writers out there that can tap away or write away until their fingers bleed. I'm not one of them. Maybe this makes me a poor writer, maybe not. I consider it a triumph just to actually open the document and add to it. Everyone has their own routines. Some people only write on Saturdays. Some add a bit every day. But everyone's 'bit' is different. Is it a chapter? Ten chapters? A paragraph? Is it for as long as you have 'time'?
I just wish time would pass as swiftly when I'm washing the dishes. But no. That time passes as slowly as if I were still little. Proof, I suppose, that time has a sense of humour.
How is your relationship with time?