Laziness and the Final Throes of Pregnancy

I can no longer see my toes when I stand. As a first-time pregnant woman (or pregasaurus as I’m now known to my husband), I sport the belly with pride.

But now at 30 weeks, the honeymoon is over. As I entered my third trimester, all the symptoms associated with this notorious trimester hit me like a ton of bricks. There’s heartburn, insomnia and fatigue. There are leg cramps that have me jumping out of bed in the middle of the night. There’s the back fat….

Hold up — BACK FAT? Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve always been a slim jim, so this back fat is brand new territory. To console myself, I figure it’s there to serve its purpose – probably to offset all the weight on the front side, so I don’t tip over when I’m standing.

Anyway, with the growing waistline and onslaught of symptoms comes a lethargic feeling like I’ve never felt before. I find myself casually stepping over balls of cat fur that blow around the house like small tumbleweeds. I see food crumbs gathering on my belly and I nonchalantly brush them on to the floor. And this morning, for the first time ever since I can remember, I considered not making my bed.

Why make the bed when you’re just going to mess it up again in a few hours? My husband has always understood this logic, and yet, it has only just occurred to me. It stands to reason that you would make the bed if you were having company, or if you were showing your house to potential buyers. But when it’s just you who sees the bed – isn’t the ritual a little pointless?

As I settle onto the couch for the long haul, it is my husband who chases fur balls with the Dust Buster and sweeps crumbs from under the coffee table. He’s never been one to clean the house from top to bottom, but he’s very diligent about this sort of “spot” cleaning.

Thankfully, our latest splurge involves a housekeeper (and a godsend), so my house is not overrun with small rodents.

I hear that just before babies arrive, pregnant women are magically struck with a sudden urge to sanitize and sterilize everything in sight. I imagine the instinct will strike me, too… at some point. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’m quite enjoying my newfound laziness.

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How to Write a Novel

People have asked me, “Where do you get the ideas for a novel?”

I don’t know where the ideas come from, but they usually start with a bolt of inspiration. An idea will pop into my head, and I’m suddenly compelled to write – even if it happens to be 3:00 in the morning.

I know things are going well when I’m in “the zone.” This is the place where I lose track of time. I could sit down to write, with the intention of writing for half an hour, but the words just flow, and the next time I glance at the clock, several hours may have passed.

Being in the zone can happen to anyone who is doing what he or she loves – like my father who has a hobby refinishing antiques and renovating houses. He’ll work for hours on end, forgetting to eat. You know he’s working on one of his projects when he gets very thin.

The other question I often get is, “How do you find the discipline to finish a novel?”

Some people like starting things. I like finishing things. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

I’m not one of those disciplined writers who sits down every day at the same time for one hour, or whatever the specified timeframe, to work on my novel. Some authors recommend this approach, but it has never worked for me. I write when the inspiration strikes.

It helps that I love creative writing. I have been writing fiction since I could hold a pencil. By age nine, inspired by Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, I had written a whole series of mystery novels about a young female detective named Mary Birks.

As a kid, I’d spend my summers typing up my Mary Birks stories on my old manual typewriter. (You remember those typewriters where your fingers got stuck between the keys?) Then my mother bought an electric typewriter. Typing on that electric typewriter was a dream – my favourite feature the back-space white-out button.

While other kids were playing sports, attending camp, or doing whatever kids do during summer vacation, I was writing stories. No one told me to do it, and I never felt compelled to finish my books. In fact, there were a few stories that I never completed. The end result – finishing the novel – was never forefront in my mind.

I loved the process. I still do.

Maybe there is no greater secret to finishing a novel than that.