I’ve been blessed with solitude since late Tuesday afternoon as my husband got called away to work. He might be back today, or it might be tomorrow or even the tomorrow after tomorrow.
I enjoy my time alone and often dream about it when real life gets in the way of writing.
If only I had some time alone, then I’d really get the manuscript moving.
It’s a filthy lie.
Oh don’t get me wrong. I have been writing. I finished a draft of a chapter on Tuesday night fueled by some hot chocolate and Irish Whiskey. I’m not much of a drinker as my body no longer tolerates it well, but I’m writing a memoir. A Wee Sip smoothes the recollecting.
I have all this time during the day to write, yet I find other ways to spend it. I've got a great chance to meditate or do self-hypnosis because I know I won’t be disturbed, but I relax too much. The nap is welcome because I don’t sleep well when my husband is away, but I’m not getting the altered state work done.
Errands take up time as does eating. Keeping up with the household chores takes away from writing although I hardly make any dishes. If I got on a writing hot streak household duties would be the first to go.
Perhaps I need the distraction, or the company, or I need someone or something to ignore. That’s how I treat recipes. I refer to them, but they are guidelines at best. I am much more creative when I’ve got something to actively ignore.
I’ve got the house to myself and no schedule. I should be happy and for the most part I am. But I thought I’d get more writing done.