It is ten a.m. Now the writing happens. In the sunlight of the living room, with prism-rainbows dancing on walls, I have given today to me. I have given the evening to friend Jo, whose work I have promised to read. I will run an errand if the mail brings what I’m expecting. I’ll talk with Mary. I’ll make dinner. These are the necessities of my life, today.
I shall try to hold the Internet at bay. I shall forbear tidying and straightening. I will ignore that whatever that asks to be scrubbed, swept, dusted, trimmed, mowed. The boxes can stay where they are for another day. The lawn can stay ragged.
No fiddling. No woolgathering. No wandering. No decisions except that of which word goes where. I owe this to myself. Even in this solo-ness, I am deep in me-debt, and I must repay.
You know. You’ve been there. For a writer, it’s easier said than done.