
(View entire post here)
Or, rather, I wish my day had thirty-nine hours. That would, frankly, make life easier.
Then again, time does seem to expand to fill a vacuum, so maybe it wouldn't be easier, just longer. I'm not sure. All I know is that there never seems to be enough time (I wonder if that could be because so many people sit around killing time? I mean, come on! If you've got too much time on your hands, don't kill it or waste it, send it my way. After all, time flies, right? Somebody, help my now. I'm getting lost in my own puns....)
Ahem.
Anyway, the point is that for a writer, time is something to be cherished and protected, which is why I've installed a lock on my office door. Because even though fifteen minutes with a break and then another fifteen minutes adds up to thirty minutes, the quality of the interrupted thirty isn't the same as one solid block of luxurious writing time. Which means that, yes, mommy does get frustrated when the head pops in during my writing time. (Thus the lock.) And I end up doing whatever it takes to get in my Big Blocks of Unfettered Writing Time.














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