Okay, I admit it. I’ve gotten little to no writing done this week due to distractions. Yup, it was one of those weeks, where anything that could interrupt writing time can and did. From picking up my daughter after school to taking her to Urgent Care (Did you know that the joints between the sternum and the ribs can get inflamed? Neither did I.), and various home distractions such as (okay, fill in your list: spouse watching television, daughter singing to MP3 player music, same making commentary about One Direction fanfic (ad nauseum!), various household and gardening chores, etc.)
Another writer had a post along the same theme earlier this week, which is maybe what made me start thinking about how easily I get distracted when my story stalls. She had a great list of things that we use to fill our days until we get to the end of the day and realize we were so busy we didn’t write anything. At this point, it’s really my MC tweaks that are sucking me into the mire.
I can hear it now: No excuses! Get your butt in that chair and write! Come on, I am writing.
“It’s not your WIP.”
My shoulders tighten. He’s standing behind me, isn’t he? Not sure I should turn around. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear him…
“I know you heard me, love. You can’t ignore me. It’s my job to keep you on track with your writing.”
I turn. My Muse is leaning against the door jamb as usual, arms crossed on his chest, lips pressed together in a tight line. Those furrows on his forehead don’t inspire the good butterflies in my middle. More like the evil butterflies with sharp wings.
“I’m still writing.”
“It’s almost June. You need to send fifty pages of your WIP to your writing sisters in a month.”
“It’s almost summer; I’m busy. Did you see the weeds in the garden? I need to rescue my spinach and beets from the green villains.”
He approaches, leans over me, and points to the screen. “Fitting blog title. Distractions. You’re not busy, you’re distracted. Goes along with procrastination.” He straightens, rests a hand on the back of my chair. I can’t decide if he means it as a threat. “It’s supposed to rain today, so guess what you’re going to do tonight after work.” It isn’t a question, more like a statement. The way he says it makes me think of my petulant teens when I remind them of their chores.
“You know, I’ve been putting off a lot of household chores–”
He stops me with a strong hand on my shoulder and a firm squeeze. “And you have two teens at home who are finished with school for the year. You know how you need to adjust your MC, just do it already. And I’m going to shadow you to make sure you focus. No chocolate until you get your head in the game.”
Ah, okay. I just got a bag of nice Dove dark chocolate with almonds. And one with sea salt caramel. Mmm, chocolate.
He squeezes again, and this time it hurts. “Head in the game, love.”
Here’s to planning a productive writing weekend. Write on!