Lets go ahead and call yesterday an aberration. It had everything to do with the cat lounging behind me and licking my hair. Something about being groomed puts me immediately to sleep. I may require therapy in the future. In the present I find myself muddling through weekends alone. My wifey is doing night shifts to finish up her nursing practicum, leaving me with three little boys who absolutely think that sleep is some form of evil.
By the time they’ve been put down I am too exhausted to really focus on anything of worth. This is problematic, because I am hip deep in work and needing to get all that done in a matter of days. Can I do it? Of course, but there will be a price. Sleep mostly. I was talking with a professor friend of mine and in a truly honest moment about writing he said, “We make myths of ourselves.” He was talking about how writers and writing teachers say you need to work for hours at the craft each day, creeping towards Malcolm Gladwell’s idea of mastery. In fact we writers tend to lounge around a lot, and on the eve of a deadline we right like possessed things until finally a draft arrives, still hot from the printer.
My life is like that. My drafts are like that, and though I would love to see them be the other way–the fantasy world writer’s way–I doubt that is forthcoming. The key to that life tends to be writing as a full time professional. I mean, I can only play so much Mass Effect 3 before gaming itself gets to be a bore. That is when I grab hold of the keyboard to unfurl my creativity.
No, I’m not going to do that right now. I’m going to check on the kids and then play Mass Effect 3.