Mid-November 2024. In a brightly lit maternity ward somewhere near Birmingham, England, a young boy was brought kicking and screaming into the world. He didn’t have a name, because we hadn’t been able to think of a good one yet.

Moments after his arrival, he was laid in my arms where he ceased crying, looked up at me with piercing blue eyes, and peed all over my T-shirt.

That was the very first of the many inconveniences visited upon me by my son.

I love my boy. And I love his sister, the eight-year-old terror whom my wife and I have called ‘the destroyer of worlds’ ever since she pulled the[1] contents of an entire bookcase into the bathroom and washed them in 2018 because “Daddy, they are dusty.” They are beautiful children, and a far cry from some of the terrors I’ve taught over the years in the classroom[2], but my god do they make writing difficult.

It’s my own fault. I had very foolish expectations of ‘writing time’. Time blocked out of certain days when I would be able to sit and just write undisturbed[3].

My wife does her best to accommodate me. She will watch the children while I venture out to the shoffice (shed-office) to create wonderful worlds and compelling characters then slap a plot through them.

But my children have other ideas.

You may have noticed the footnote numbers sprinkled throughout this blog post. They are the number of times my daughter has come into the shoffice to ask me a question, ask for permission, to tell me an interesting thing she just did[4], or cry because mummy said she couldn’t have something or do something[5][6][7] while I’m writing this.

Each one takes me away from my internal thoughts and wrenches me back to the real world where I must solve a problem and when I finally have peace again, I must track down the train of thought I was on and get the locomotive moving.

It is very difficult to create anything when interruptions are constant, and my wife cannot deal with a screaming seven-month-old and a bored eight-year-old at the same time. Nappies need doing, feeding needs to take place, and at some point, she must feed and wash herself.

There is no one to blame. It is no one’s fault (Unless you go back sixteen months to the moment I said, “You know, I think it’s time we had another child”) it just is.

So[8], my newsletter has fallen by the wayside, my blog posts are becoming more and more last minute, and the writing of Apocalypse Later has ground to a halt like a train desperately trying to stop before it goes off a cliff[9].

There’s no time.

I wish I’d started this writing journey when I was younger. Before children, bills, and horrible knee pain. In a time when the only person I had to care for was me. But I didn’t. I must make do. An hour here, a thirty-minute block there. By inches, I will create my stories and bring them into the world.

And years from now, in a time when I am no longer here, my children will be able to pick up one of my books and hear their father’s voice again, screaming[10] at them through time to be good people and to always do the right thing.

Because if they don’t, the baddie’s win. And no one wants to live in a world like that.

J

[1] Have you read my story yet, daddy?

[2]Can I go out the front on my bike?

[3] Can I have a cornflake cake?

[4] Look at this dance I made up.

[5] Mummy won’t let me play Roblox on the TV

[6] Can I play Roblox on your Phone?

[7] Why? You’re not using it.

[8] Daddy, Mummy needs your help with Logan’s nappy.

[9] This time, my wife came in to tell me she had to go and pick up a friend from the hospital and I had to watch the kids while she was gone.

[10] Can I have some Robucks?