Writing Under Fire

Writing on the Battlefield

March 7, 2008

I have three children. The oldest, at age 15, is filled with teen-aged angst and introspection and spends much of his time in his room, where he can brood over life’s meaning.

The other two, age eleven (a boy on the brink of peachfuzz) and eight (a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty of a daughter, God help us) have procured a book on the making of paper airplanes.

They kneel at the coffee table with their brows furrowed, their lips pursed in concentration, the stapler clacking away as they secure the wings and the nose. When it’s all assembled, it is time, naturally, for a test flight. A sleeve is rolled up, an arm is pulled back, and the missile is launched.

Our dogs run for cover. (We have three. Big. Dogs.)

And despite what you’ve heard about Akitas and Dobermans, they are really just big babies.

Big. Big. Babies.

And they can knock my husband (imagine Jason Statham with muscles) right over if he is caught unawares.

My husband works at night sometimes, sitting in his mission-style chair, computer propped on his lap, saving the world one database at a time. I sit, more properly, at a tiny desk where I can look out the front window at the pear trees…which are starting to blossom. From this poetic spot in my living room, I can daydream about the lavish life of a writer, the next plot point in my current novel. Should there be a love scene or not? Should I re-work chapter 4?

All this while paper missiles fly overhead, landing on my keypad. If the Department of Defense only knew what battles are waged in the living room of this DBA and his family, they might rethink the entire Iraq situation.

My world is gangsters, dames, roscoes, thumb-breaking, and infidelity…all happening in concert with a bottle of bourbon and a pack of unfiltereds.

My children and my husband live lives that are more high-tech. In their worlds, computers talk to each other over thousands of miles, information is sent to secret places even a wife can’t know about…and paper airplanes, secured with scotch tape and staples, fly below the radar and get tangled in my hair while dogs duck and cover and wait for the war to stop.

Such is the glamorous life of this writer.