I think this might be a fallacy of a fantasy (not to be confused with a phallic fantasy, an entirely different order of thing). This past weekend I had TONS of alone time. My beloved spousal unit left town Friday morning and returned unto me only this Sunday afternoon. My aspirations, writing wise, were weighty. “All that uninterrupted time!” I said to myself, “I’ll get so much writing done!” (for some reason I speak to myself primarily using exclamation points.)
Wrong. I had a good week of writing, but none of it happened on my days o’ freedom. All of it came on the regular days, when I was carving an hour and a half out of my morning to get the words in. The empty days yawned before me, gaping maws of potentiality that begged for grist. Grist I supplied in the form of going to a movie, shopping for toys, playing with fake swords, and drinking with friends. Not so much writing.
It is possible that the fight to find time to write is connected with the will to write at all. At least for me. Further experimentation shall be embarked upon.
Before the ambush by all that nasty free time, I got 4300 words in this week. I wrapped up chapter two, the first of the chapters with the male protagonist. I love the start I’ve made on this novel, and am excited to get back to Hannah in chapter three.
Also, a new writing group in Puyallup of which I am the facilitator! More info tomorrow. And words!