All that about bounding through the grass and playing in the garden? Can't today. My manuscript is due at the publisher's next week and it's only half finished. So today will be spent chained to the desk, typing feverishly and trying to ignore the blue sky calling outside the window.
Writing used to come naturally to me, and it used to be one of my chief joys. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I'd spend hours every day sitting cross-legged in front of my blue electric typewriter on the floor, madly pounding out story after story. Now, it seems there's always a thousand other things clamouring for my attention, a lot of them also chief joys, and I never get more than a fifteen-minute stretch to write in. It makes for disjointed thinking. The words don't flow, and I find myself tidying up other things before taking the time to sit and write. I face a blank laptop screen and suddenly it seems very important to go check for the mail, or to make cookies, or to do laundry, or to...ahem...update my blog. Anything to avoid the moment of truth when I have to dive into that blank screen and dredge up something worthwhile.
Wish me luck.
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