A year ago, I made a single resolution. I was going to finish writing my first novel. And I did.

Meeting my goal brought me a sense of overwhelming pride and accomplishment, but it also shuffled in an era of frustration, anxiety, guilt, resentment, vulnerability and exposure, self doubt, and well, you get the picture.

I never had grand illusions about becoming the next Jodi Piccoult. I enjoy the craft, I had a story to tell, and that’s the basis for my novel. But to be honest, I had difficulty getting the job done. The ideas and words were all there. Most days, I simply couldn’t find the uninterrupted time.

A large part of writing comes down to discipline. I’ve read that Stephen King cranks out a minimum of two thousand words a day—no excuses, no stalling, no bullshit. He sits down first thing in the morning, he shuts out the background noise, and he works until noon.

There’s tremendous value in establishing a set writing time each day. For the average person, turning out five or ten quality pages should take about two or three hours.

Unfortunately, my creative energy begins in the early evening hours—pretty much in the middle of dinner prep, sports practices, or the thick of the witching hour where at least one of my kids becomes completely unglued.

I didn’t pick these hours. They chose me. So, here’s what actually happens when I sit down to work.

Picture yourself in a diner with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield. That scene where Jules opens up his briefcase and everyone stops to stare at the warm golden glow of Marsellus Wallace’s soul emanating from within? That diner is my house and my tablet is the briefcase. The minute I open it, my daughters materialize out of nowhere. They stare into my screen as though they’ve never before seen an electronic device. When I snap it shut, realizing they’ve probably read the word fuck at least once, they wake from their trance, asking about my day, what am I making for dinner, can I help them edit an essay, can they borrow my charger?

My husband does at least three random walkbys, trying hard to be discreet as he glances at my screen to see what I’m writing. He’ll lean in to sample the wine I’ve poured into a glass and he’ll massage my shoulders. The dogs whine by my feet, begging for belly rubs.

The background noise is impossible to tune out. Within minutes, frustration turns to resentment, which turns to guilt.  Why. Can’t. They. Let. Me. Be?

I’m a problem solver by nature. So I do the obvious. I train myself to “be creative” during my non-creative time when I won’t have family distractions. I establish my new time – after lunch and before school lets out for the day. I am proud of myself for working out a solution.

Unfortunately, the new time doesn’t work either.

I open up my tablet and I’m fairly certain it projects a Batman symbol into the sky, even during broad daylight, letting the world know I am in deep distress and need to be rescued from myself.

My phone buzzes every five seconds because a friend added me to a group text with twenty other ladies all trying to find a mutually convenient date for lunch.

The Amazon and UPS trucks stop outside of my house and their sharp raps on my front door send my dogs into a barking frenzy.

A friend calls to share a funny political story she heard on the news that morning.

Landscapers arrive to clean the trimmed grass from the greenway beside my home. I clench my teeth at the grating sound of their blowers stopping and starting.

I wear earplugs; I mute my phone. Why can’t I turn it off? Because the moment I do, I’m pretty sure the school nurse will call to let me know one of my kids is puking their guts out in her office.

I can’t silence my life.

The idea of becoming a writer sometimes feels like a futile one. I’m fighting against a powerful current that has left me treading water with land in sight, but always out of reach. And then it hits me. I need to swim with the tide, diagonally, until it eventually releases me.

Sometimes, the journey itself is part of the experience.

So as I contemplate resolutions for 2020, the obvious one – to get my manuscript published – will take a seat in the second row.

Instead, I will try to be more content with the blessings I’ve been given. I have my health. I have a family who happily orbits around me as though I’m their undying sun. My friends keep me from becoming a recluse. They pull me into pickup tennis matches and birthday lunches. I will be grateful when Amazon and UPS deliver packages to my house.

It’s time to worry a little less about what I don’t have, and care a lot more about all that I do have. My writing adventure may take longer than I want or ever intended, but I will reach the shore eventually.