Finding Time to Write

Blog #2 Dinkum Date 368.24. Finding Time to Write.

I complain, often, I suppose, that I have no time to write. Finally, my wife got sick of hearing it and said, “You want to write more? Keep off social media and cruising the internet, ya douche.” Lynn pulls no punches. She smiled, kissed me, and popped out the door, heading off to work.

Hmph! Why, that’s not it at all. I need to do research. I’d hate to have my facts wrong. They wouldn’t be facts then.

It did take me forever to write the first novel with working full time and all those familial responsibilities, not to mention the many hours of volunteer work for the charitable organizations and foundations I support. The Society for the Elimination of Space Junk is one, The Institute for the Ethical Treatment of Farm Raised Frogs is another. And what kind of humanitarian would I be if I ignored the Partnership for the Permanence of Prepositions? Why should pronouns get all the attention? But I digress.

There are twenty-four hours in a day. I sleep nineteen. So that leaves five. Ha, kidding. I sleep seven. Actually, I sleep about five or six, but I’m in bed for seven, hoping for a miracle. Then I’ve got the three SHs—shit, shave, and shower. Feed the small beast. Walk it or whatever. Confirm the family is prepared for the day. If it’s nice out, get my notebook, laptop, and life affirming coffee and head to Notre-Dame, the name I’ve given my writing area, wherever it happens to be at the time, since it’s my sanctuary from disturbances, so I had hoped but hasn’t come to fruition.

I work for as long as I can—from around eight to three or four, although my brain shuts down at around two. If there’s a scene or anything left wafting in my head, I’ll re-caffeinate, hoping to continue until I get to a natural break point while still having something left for the next day.

Interruptions are always lurking. For example, the day before I wrote this, I swore I had somehow developed leprosy. Yes, it’s still around and I had just about every symptom. Your limbs and digits don’t really fall off, but it’s still a real creepy disease. What would we do without Google? I shot over to my doctor. He looked at me, shaking his head, and said, “Keep the hell off the web, douche.” He pulls no punches either.