Why Writers Go Insane, part 46

I’ve been struggling with writing at night recently. After the kids are in bed, the dishes are done, the laundry’s folded, etc. etc, all I can do is stare at the screen through a haze of dumb fatigue.

So I decided to try something different this morning. I got up before dawn, before the heat was on in the house, dressed in the dark and made a cup of coffee, and huddled under a blanket at the computer in the spare bedroom, trying to wake up and keep warm.

But something about having quiet time in a room of one’s own must send out a signal to the children of the universe, who abhor their parents making progress on external pursuits.

The door to the room swung open, and there was my son. Five days a week I have to scrape him out of bed to go to school, but on Saturday he’d willed himself to get up early, and to come down the hall so he could point at the monitor and ask to play his computer game.

What could I do? He was up. I couldn’t ignore him for an hour. I bargained with him and said I needed to finish the paragraph I was working on. The whole time he kept noting how long it was taking.

Total elapsed writing time: 13 minutes.

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