Writing
with Kids: Finding Creative Flow in the Chaos
Guest Post by Haley Cavanagh, Author
of Shadowed Skies
Writing while raising kids is a bit
like trying to bake a soufflé during a thunderstorm. There are beautiful
moments of rise and rhythm, followed by sudden collapses when someone needs a
Band-Aid, a snack, or just…you. All of you.
As a mom, veteran, and full-time
author, I’ve learned that writing with kids isn’t about finding perfect
balance—it’s about finding pockets of possibility in the everyday.
Here are some hard-earned lessons
and tips that help me keep the words flowing—even when life feels like it’s
operating at full volume:
1.
Embrace the Season You're In
There were times when I could write
3,000 words a day and times when 300 was a miracle. And that’s okay. Writing is
a long game. Some seasons are fertile. Some are about surviving. Give yourself
grace.
2.
Turn “Mom Moments” into Micro-Writing
While waiting in the school pickup
line or during a cartoon marathon, I jot down dialogue snippets, plot ideas, or
emotional beats on my phone. Sometimes I’ll even dictate it to get the words
down smoother. Those small moments add up and keep me connected to my
characters.
3.
Set Boundaries—With Flexibility
I have “writing hours,” but I also
have a child who sometimes needs extra care. I aim for consistency, but I don’t
punish myself when plans change. I just pivot and start again. The work waits.
My child’s heart doesn’t.
4.
Make It a Family Affair
My daughters sometimes help name
characters or choose titles (they have strong opinions!). Letting the kids into
the creative process helps her feel part of what I do—and gives me fresh
perspective.
5.
Protect Your Creative Energy
Even when I can't write, I refill
my well. I read. I listen to music. I stare at the stars. Resting is
part of writing. It keeps my inner storyteller awake, even when the outside
world is exhausting.
6.
Celebrate the Small Wins
Wrote a sentence? That’s a win.
Opened the manuscript despite exhaustion? Win. Hit publish after five stolen
minutes a day for six months? Giant win. You’re doing it. Your way. And that’s
worth honoring.
Final
Thought:
Writing with kids in the mix is
unpredictable, loud, and imperfect—and also incredibly rich. My daughter
inspires my stories with her resilience, curiosity, and wild imagination. She
reminds me why I write in the first place: to give voice to the fierce, brave
girls of tomorrow.
If you’re writing in the margins of
family life, you’re not alone. You’re part of a quiet revolution. And your
story matters—messy, magical, and entirely your own.
Excerpt:
I wake to a muscular, silent figure looming over me, his wings casting unnerving shadows. Intelligent dark eyes scrutinize me from his smooth, brown face framed by cropped black hair and raven quills. He’s been around the block.
My guard shoots up. I’d stand, but my body’s too weak from the climb. “Your nest, huh? Sorry, I didn’t see your name on it.”
“It’s carved right over there.” He points past me to the rockface. My eyes travel over the stone, where he’d etched River in craggy letters. The carved name is so tiny I didn’t notice.
“Now you’re supposed to tell me your name. That’s how this goes.”
I blink. “Delene Fairborne. Listen, would you mind if I–– ow,” I scrape against the wall and suck air through my teeth. I clamp my eyes shut.
“Are you okay?”
I shrug the blanket off, and my injured wing flops lamely near my shoulder. River’s eyebrows lower, and he comes closer.
“Let me look.”
He stows his serrated hunting knife, presents empty hands, and crouches to examine my injury. “Relax. I won’t hurt you. Let’s see the damage.” He’s gentle, avoiding the wound and handling my feathers softly. He lightly touches the bandage.
“Dr. Lytle runs the Stockade, the underground bunker and lab where the humans imprison and experiment on our kind. His men hunted me down and shot me with a crossbow as I tried
to escape. The wound is still healing––I changed the bandage earlier, but without a spare set of clothes, I had to tear strips off my pants to re-dress it.”
“Hmm.” He examines the back with a frown. “There’s an exit wound.”
“Yeah, I pulled it out.”
“Well, that was stupid of you. You could have died if those goons pierced a blood feather.”
My temper flares. “Oh, as opposed to leaving it in. I’d rather take my chances, thanks.” My voice is hostile, though I’m grateful for his help. I still don’t know who he is or what he wants, and my mother warned me to be on my guard.
River sits back on his haunches, sighs, and meets my eyes.
“Doesn’t look good. How long have you been here, kid? A day or so?”
“I’m no kid. I’m seventeen.”
“Well, I’m eighteen. So, you’re a kid.”
“By what, a few whole months?” I snicker. “Okay. If a kid free-climbed in the pitch-black up a hundred-foot cliff to get here, I guess I’m a kid.”
After examining the wound, he says, “The damage looks fixable. Let’s clean this well to prevent infection.”
“I’ve cleaned the wound.”
“Clean deeper,” he admonishes. “I don’t have antibiotics, but I’ll try to get some. Or at least honey. Honey heals.”
He hesitates before retrieving water, then takes a rag from his pouch and soaks the cloth. With the knife still in hand, he comes closer.
“Look … You seem all right, but I’m a lone wolf. I operate solo. You have a target with a big ‘X’ on your back. I feel bad for you. I do. But you know how it is with our kind.” He gives me a blatant look, so here’s your cue to leave.
“Gee, I’d kindly vacate the premises, but I can’t fly.”
He rubs the back of his neck, agitated. “The valley’s full of drones. And they’ve got at least a dozen soldiers combing the forest.”
“I’m sorry.” I shift my eyes down. “You never asked for any of this.”
“None of us did,” he waves me off. “The soldiers are here.
I’m screwed either way.” He pauses and assesses me. “Stay the night. Then after that, I’m sorry, but you need to find somewhere else to hide.”
The night might be all I need. “Thank you.”
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