Not the retreat I counted on

News flash: writing? Its hard. That should probably be reassuring. If it was easy, then everyone would have a novel sitting on their desk, the competition would be greater, and I’d feel even worse about not having made the progress I want to on this endeavor.

As I mentioned, this weekend was supposed to be my great writing retreat. Real life marches on, though, and the beat of that drummer is a random, wild cacophony. Without going into the boring details, something came up at work that ended up resulting in a nice, solid 25 hours at the office. Everything is fine, your usual sysadminy complaint about massive upgrades and such, but it meant that when I headed home Friday morning, I was sleep deprived and weary. Most of Friday evening, once the kids were off on their camping trip, I sat down to rest for a few minutes.

About 300 of them to be exact.

And despite having this whole, empty house to just me and the dog, I find myself distracted with grass mowing and dishes and other minutia. And not for the first time, I find myself missing the rumble of the children around me.

I am so sick.

That’s not to say I haven’t made accomplishments today. I’ve tightened up some references, going through my revision notes and updating the storyline. I’ve added about a thousand words of new text so far today, which isn’t bad.

The real problem is that I don’t need a writer’s retreat. What I need is to take the time to sit down in a chair and write. If I could just do that consistently, these excuses to write wouldn’t be necessary.

I’d be done already.

So watch this space, because I’m buckled in, the keys are warmed up, and its time to wrap things up.

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