I used to write every day. That was back when I had sleeping babies and pre-schoolers that went to school on a regular schedule. Now that I’m an empty nester I think I am going to write every day, but then stuff happens.
Like exercise classes and long hikes.
A sister to visit in her care home.
Facebook. I waste a lot of time on Facebook.
But then I got an email from my agent. Two editors want to see more of my stuff. I got motivated and went looking for more stories. I ended up cleaning my office to get organized. I found three dozen manuscripts that I’d written over the past two years. I put them in a plastic box and then alphabetized them.
Half the day was over, and I still hadn’t written anything. But at least I’d found the manuscripts I was looking for.
Today I tried again. I came home from exercise class and reveled in the fact that it was raining again, so I was off the hook for walking the dogs. I was on fire with my rhyming couplets when my worker woman/the contractor’s helper pulled up to load some stuff of mine into her truck. I sighed, wrote down my latest thought and answered the door. My little window of no contractor/no dog walks/no Facebook had ended.
The contractor showed up to help the woman load a big window. Then she left, and he stayed. There was hammering, compressor sounds, and questions. Even if I tuned out the hammering and compressor sounds, the questions were enough to break my train of thought.
I sighed again and went into the living room to watch the nightly news. A little bit of writing progress had been made today.
Writing. It’s baby steps. Those luxurious days of writing during two-hour naps are long over.
Can I be disciplined enough to write every day? Maybe when the kitchen remodel is finished.
Maybe when I get off Facebook (I did get a story idea from a share that came into my feed).
Maybe when I think of those two editors waiting to see more of my stuff.