I had Friday off this past week, which means (huzzah!) I had a full day of uninterrupted writing. One of those rare times where I could pretend that I’d quit my day job forever to embrace the life of the contented artist, blissfully typing on the laptop on my back porch, creating high art that will stand the test of time.
At 10:00 a.m. I text husband.
Me: “Oh my god, there are two squirrels doing it up the side of our backyard tree.”
Tim: “That’s nice. Kinda working here.”
Me: “Seriously, that’s been my day so far: writing, and two squirrels having sex up the side of a tree. Obviously, I need to be doing this full-time.”
Tim: “Writing, or watching squirrel sex?”
Me: “Writing! Though I am good at multitasking.”
Tim: “So, how much writing have you actually done?”
Me: “Hey, I’m still hitting my stride. Plus, those squirrels are LOUD in their passion.”
Portions of that might have been exaggerated. But those squirrels were really loud and distracting. The moral of the story is that having more time to write doesn’t actually mean anything unless I take advantage of it. Yes, I did get some good writing done eventually, but there’s always going to be some excuse you can find to distract yourself from your daily word count.
Like squirrel sex.