… and this is one of them. I’m back to that unfortunate phase of starts and fits with the writing. It can feel like a war when this is happening. I struggle for the words and the motivation and the focus to keep going on to the next sentence. Still, it is as much a part of the writing experience as anything I’ve felt or done in my existence as a writer. I’d say you’re not a writer until you hit one of the tough spells. Fighting through it is what gives you the credentials–the street cred–and the courage to go on with your career. I’m learning a great deal about my process and ways to constantly improve it. What gets me going, what isn’t working environmentally, what rewards seem relevant, what makes me smile, even the mathematical formulae for writing success (to be shared at a later date after extensive piloting).
Then there are the boys.
Of course, writing with them in the house is just foolishness. They’re not interested in me doing anything that doesn’t involve them or involve my attention being seated squarely in boyland. Who can blame them? Attention from my parents was always something I lauded, even when I knew my mom or less occasionally, my dad (not the biological guy–the real dude) had no interest in interacting with me at the time. In truth, the less they wanted a piece of me the more I demanded a piece of them.
I was just one hyperactive little person. Now I have three miniaturized version of that guy all amped up for face time. Rare is the morning lately that I wake up and some little person hasn’t snaked himself on top of me.
So, when the lights go down in the bedroom and I make my way to the office, it is good to spend ten minutes reflecting and warming up the tool. After, its time to get my mind fully in the game and write that stuff I love and that I occasionally get paid for.