…why does Life keep interfering with my writing? Who’s going to eat all this leftover turkey crammed inside my fridge? And why am I the one stuck with thinking about it? And why does my home look like the inside of a frat house? And again I say, when can I get back to my writing?
I now understand why many historical writers were hysterical curmudgeons, not to mention recluses. It’s the only way you can get your work done.
A short time ago, I finished giving my mother-in-law’s dog a bath. There were a myriad of steps that led to it, but there you are. She and her son, my husband, just went swimming. The house is quiet. Finally. Praise the Lord and pass the pen.
LIVING VS. WRITING. WRITING VS. LIVING. And never the twain shall meet.
Well, hardly ever.