For someone who writes, having children means learning what it really means writing.
Write to the television set.
Write a house dazed by the noise, a house in which never again be silent.
Write when, after a bath, dinner, after washing their teeth, after telling the same story several times and tuck after many others, is finally going to bed.
Write loose papers.
Write ticket behind the supermarket.
Writing in a notebook full of color scratches.
Writing in the dark.
Write sitting a park bench.
Write watching the thermometer and waiting for the syrup will lower the fever.
Write dead sleep.
Writing at times, between diaper changes, washing machine and the next.
white clothes separate from the linen color.
Irene Write until you get out of a nap.
Write shoulders stained saliva and mucus.
Write having discovered that the real dilemma is not writing or living, but to write or sleep.
Write accepting that from that moment, at most (and hopefully), one is in his own life the role of actor.
Always write about them.
Write only on them.
Write yet.
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