Sitting in an idyllic setting, maybe with a view of a lake, mountains or the sea, enjoying the glories of a sunrise or sunset. Uninterrupted serenity to let the imagination run wild and the words to pour out in a torrent from the mind to the page. Feeling the euphoria of creation and the satisfaction of a story well told.
That’s how I envisioned the life of a novelist.
I wish.
More often than not, the writing takes place in between loads of laundry, trips to the grocery store and scrubbing toilets. I have one friend who seems to know by some form of clairvoyance when I’ve gotten into a groove. That’s when she calls.
Relatives get sick, bills need to be paid, denied insurance claims need to be contested. All these impinge in the time set aside for writing and chase away that elusive muse.
My latest distraction is my youngest stepdaughter, whose car was hit by a drunk driver. She’s in the hospital in another state, awaiting hand surgery. Upsetting for all concerned. The muse has fled.
But I can’t let that be an excuse for not writing. The only way to be successful at this, or any other endeavor, is to press on, even when life presses in and you just don’t feel like it.
So I’ll put my head down and get my fingers moving.