Reason #42 Why It's Tough To Be A Writer

You drag yourself out of bed, shuffle over to the calendar (after a stop at the bathroom, of course), and when your mind deciphers what that blank little square staring back at you means, your eyes flip-flap open like the snapping up of a shade. YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO TODAY!!!

Ahhh.

So you French Press yourself a java, fill up a cup the size of Detroit, toodle outside with your laptop in hand, and park yourself at the patio table. You are armed to write a gazillion words, or at least pound out the ending of the novel that you’re dying to finish (see yesterday’s post).

And then the phone rings.

“Hi! This is the dental office. We’ve had a cancellation and can see your daughter in an hour. Isn’t that great?”

You figure the receptionist must be a blonde cheerleader because no one else on earth sounds that bubbly. Or else she's on drugs. Whatever. You grunt in the affirmative, then go drag your teenager out of bed and get yourself into some kind of clothing that doesn’t look as if you’ve slept in it. You fail. On both accounts. So you slug back the java and conquer at least getting the kid moving, but when you walk through the dentist’s door, you still look like a wrinkled, rumpled mess.

No worries, though. The morning may be shot, but the afternoon is still clear. Drop off teenager at home and head for Starbucks. Surely you can write a gazillion words there—especially since you left your cell phone at home. Cue evil laughter.

You order a triple shot mucho grande latte, station yourself at an outside table, flip open the laptop, hover your fingers over the keys, and…

“Boo!”

Freak out because someone just whisper-yelled into your ear. It’s your twenty-something son who you haven’t seen in forever because he’s too busy gallivanting around the country. You have to connect with him. You don’t know when he’ll swing by this way again. Besides, isn’t it every mother’s dream to have their adult child seek them out and talk over life’s grand issues? And he does. For two and a half hours.

There goes the afternoon.

No problem, though. You swing by to pick up frozen pizza on the way home because doggone it, you’re going to write tonight! You’ve got nothing planned.

The cell phone warbles as soon as you walk in the front door.

“Found some great houses for you to look at tonight, and one of them is fresh on the market. Are you free?”

You know what? I hate empty white squares on my calendar.