As much as I meditate and try to simplify my life and live in the present moment, somehow I live in distraction, constantly being pulled away by one thing or another, some of them self-chosen, some handed to me by others.
I fight for my writing time, keeping an hour or two sacrosanct on the tough days (the toughest days consume everything). And my stories limp along, as I pick away at them, longing for chunks of time when I can really concentrate.
The writing is different when I have more time, more silence, more room in my life. This week I was gifted more time, and the novel I’m working on leapt forward, as I took advantage of all the slow, limping work to surge ahead. And I had more time, spare time for not-the-novel, when I played with story ideas, and found a short story that was ready to finish.
Now I’m laid stupid by a stomach bug, but I’m satisfied with my week, replete with creativity, and happy to take a day to rest.
Maureen
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