I'm working my way toward a writing routine once again. I get into the groove, love it, then get knocked out of it. The shiny little marble, that could be symbolic for writing, (bear with me, I've been sick) goes rolling off across the floor and underneath the refrigerator. There are reasons, excuses, and delusions all over the place when it comes to the subject of why writers don't write. I've had this nagging cough but I'm back on my shaky feet. Care of the resident sprout is the number one priority around here, but there should be a way to eke out an hour or two each day for some writing time. I barely have the time to ponder what a weird word eke is.
The writing group is meeting tonight so I'm dragging my sorry ass to Boulder in rush hour traffic. I'm going out to coffee in the morning, alone or with anyone I can con into joining me, (Cafe Luna, 9:30) then I'll pick up said Sprout at her detainment center by noon. It would rock her world if the weather would cooperate so that she could finally play on that tantalizing playground out in the fresh air.
I'm fighting the inevitable rut of responsibilities and obligations, and wouldn't have it any other way, but it would be sublime to write. To live the dream. To cruise in the zone for a while. Almost as sublime as being published, perchance to dream.
The writing group is meeting tonight so I'm dragging my sorry ass to Boulder in rush hour traffic. I'm going out to coffee in the morning, alone or with anyone I can con into joining me, (Cafe Luna, 9:30) then I'll pick up said Sprout at her detainment center by noon. It would rock her world if the weather would cooperate so that she could finally play on that tantalizing playground out in the fresh air.
I'm fighting the inevitable rut of responsibilities and obligations, and wouldn't have it any other way, but it would be sublime to write. To live the dream. To cruise in the zone for a while. Almost as sublime as being published, perchance to dream.
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