That quote from Annie Dillard (The Writing Life) always resonates, but this morning especially as I write my morning pages. Between gazing out the window at the men on the roof of a neighbor’s house and watching the squirrel skitter along the fence rail, I list all the things I’d like to do today. Because it’s Thursday, they include:
Home isn’t always the best place for me to get serious writing time in. I’ve heard this from other writers, too—the audible sighing of the refrigerator wherein goodies lie in wait, the laundry that rustles in the hamper, the skittering of dust bunnies under the bed. And these days, when the deadline for my new book (Wild Women, Wild Voices) looms over me like the leggy philodendron on my bookshelf and I need to get some serious work done, I’ve been loading up my laptop and hitting the road. In the past two weeks my writing and I have encamped in so many different locations, it’s beginning to feel like a moveable feast, except it’s more like a feast that’s in early preparation stages, all potatoes to peel and lettuce to wash.