I went to my studio to write this morning, turned the key in the lock, plugged my computer in, situated everything so it was positioned the way I wanted it to be, and turned on a little Vivaldi in the background and being a strange ritual of filling up empty space on a white computer screen while a blinking cursor tries to keep time with the click clack type of my words.  I type relentlessly while the words flow out, trying to keep up with the ideas that are an express train from my imagination.

Well, it could go like that.  Some days go like that, but some days are more like this:

The Vivaldi is right, the blinking cursor is right, the blank page is right.

Then something that I guess does have something to do with the writing process begins as well.  I think about the dishes stacked up at home, seriously, someone needs to do them, I should have just done them before I left this morning.  And I need to go through the fridge and throw out all the food with the mold on it, I should have put that chicken in the crock pot.  I wish the internet worked here, I need to email Pam, tell her I got a podium.  Podeum? Podium…really wish I could spell better.  All Mrs. Finstemaker’s fault for getting pregnant in 3rd grade and leaving us with a substitute that only did math.  I am good at math though.  I should take some community education math class, keep my mind limber, give me something to do.  What’s today, the 2nd?  When did that happen?  Shit, I missed that free author reading Friday night, what were we doing Friday night?  Nothing, I was watching tv.  Damnit, gotta start looking at my day planner, at least once a week would work.  Why did I get a day planner if I’m not going to use it.  I need to clean that windowsill, man is it dusty.  No, I’ll write some more first then clean it.  But if I clean it now, I can write because it won’t be bothering me.

(I cleaned the windowsill, window, and baseboards of my writing space.  I straightened a few pictures and my mom called, so talked to her for a few minutes.)

Okay, back to work now.  Gotta get my list of published works together for that writer’s guild I want to try to get into.  Need to work on at least one chapter of my new book and edit the first seven pages of the book I’m getting ready to send to agents and publishers.

What does this message mean?  Can’t save text because my files are too big?  What the hell.

(Call my tech support: my husband.  He makes me check different properties, check how things are running, give him numbers that I’m not sure what the hell they mean, and he waits while I reboot the computer.  Oh that did it, he explains what the problem was and I don’t really pay attention because computer stuff causes information overload.)

Okay, down to business.  I decide to edit, open up the work I’m editing and work on that for a little bit.  Wait, this sentence reads funny, I think it’s the word Pile that makes it wrong, is that what I mean?  Pile? No, that sounds like a pile of crap.  Stack?  Stash?  What does the synopsis thing say? Pile: mound, quantity, heap, mass…I don’t like any of those.  What is the sentence what is it I’m trying to say?  I’ll rewrite it.  Reread it.  Ugh, no.  That’s not what I mean, I think I mean pile.  Does it go?  This is way too much attention for one sentence.  What is that story Stephen Kind told in his book On Writing? Oh yeah:

A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair.
“James, what’s wrong?” the friend asked. “Is it the work?”
Joyce indicated assent without even lifting his head to look at the friend. Of course it was the work; isn’t it always?
“How many words did you get today?” the friend pursued.
Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled face down on his desk): “Seven.”
“Seven? But James . . . that’s good, at least for you!”
“Yes,” Joyce said, finally looking up. “I suppose it is . . . but I don’t know what order they go in!”

Oh no, is that the time?  How did it get so late?  I’ll leave the word pile, maybe that’s what I mean.

So there you go, a rare glimpse into the life of a writer, well, THIS writer.  Now if you will excuse me, I should really mop the kitchen floor.  It looks horrible.