Juyly 9th, 1978: On "sneak writing" and demanding children

Tonight is really too hot to sleep.  It reminds me of the summer nights in Illinois, when I used to sneak downstairs with my book long after dark.  I would switch on the light and the floor would be a seething black mass of cockroaches (EDITOR'S NOTE: *SHUDDERS*).  I'd give them time to clear and settle to read to an accompaniment of cicadas and peepers from the pond.  The air would be hot to breathe and full of shrill maddening sound-the book a cool hospitable escape.  I could submerge myself in snow and Christmas preparations or voyage on the high seas (I wanted to run away to sea fro years until I discovered girls weren't allowed to sign on as cabin boys). 

Now I no longer have to sneak to read at night (tho' I have neighbors who think it peculiar that sometimes stay up till as late as 2:00am!), but I do most of my reading, and all of my writing after Pete's safely in bed.  Otherwise he always wants attention right at the denouement-is the detective about to announce the murderer?, Will the runaway be caught before they get to Gretna Green?...then Pete will want a drink, a playmate, a shoe tied, a story, or a hug.  Whatever the reason, Momma will have to get there in a hurry...and "there" is usually the front lawn when he just sits and shouts till I appear.

If I try to write while he's awake, he endeavors to help me by drawing pictures in my book, or writing a story himself-for which I have to spell out all the words-or by insisting that read to him everything I've written down, on which occasions, he amends what I've written by inserting every incident I've left out, saying "now put that in, momma", and insisting I read him the amended version.

Right now, though, he's safely in bed, and here I am in a hot kitchen (no cockroaches, though) "sneak writing".