writing days

I blew off everything today to work on chapter fourteen. I have twenty tasks barreling down upon my head, but I blew off all to work on my manuscript.

Good for me! Administer pats on back!

Some will wonder at my life of ease and indolence, and find it incredible that still I can't seem to finish my novel, find time to write.

Sometimes I wonder at it myself.

It does come down to sitting down and doing it.  But despite my privileged circumstances--and I call them thus, because even though I live just above hardscrabble in America, my life contains greater luxury and comfort than any medieval princess--I am distracted beyond description.

Every call to my attention merits more of my time, energy and consideration than the thing I call my heart's desire--my writing.

Every wail for help, 'Where's the scissors?'

'The green sweater?'

'The vanilla?' (On the spice rack, at eye level!)

His Magnificence wonders why I can't wash my dishes as I use them; he is intent on domesticating me and cultivating in me some civilized habits.  When I say, 'I'm on a writing tear! I can't stop a moment lest I lose momentum!', he thinks I am being a scoff-work.

Really, the dishes can wait.  The telephone bill can wait.  The dentist can wait.  The ancient Toyota's oil change can wait. It all can wait, until I finish chapter fourteen.