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It is 11:20 PM. After working for roughly twelve hours today, I am finally parked in front of my computer with my scribbles from the past several days. The kids weren’t in bed until after 9:30. (After spouting some selfish notion about wanting to actually spend time with me after I’ve been gone all day.) Then the hubby called. (Ditto.) After that, I was going to do yoga to undo the knots from yesterday’s aerobics class and try to work some of this fanny off. That was the plan, at least.
But I have 60 messages in my inbox to respond to. Dishes in the dishwasher to put away. Bills that need paid tonight. Laundry screaming both to be done and to be put away. My bedroom is dismantled, still. And what do I really want to do?
I want to write. I want to write.
Ah, yes. Summer vacation. This is what I couldn’t wait for.
>I just read your 2006 post "my second writers conference." What appeared to be a random choice became inextricably linked to this post. You are a writer. You write. It's a natural. It's who you are. I sense your "night vision" will morph into night hearing. I think you hear more than you perceive. Your writing is evidence. I feel refreshed as I read you. No matter how many things assail you, write on! NG
>Every time I see interviews with successful writers, some variation on this concept comes up–some of us were born with the appetite for writing and we crave it. By the way, what a happy thing, I check in on your blog and there's a ton of stuff to enjoy–yea!KP