Sometimes I really wish I was Carrie Bradshaw.
White girl problems, am’I’right?! But in all seriousness, it’s not just the clothes. Or the closet. Or THAT HAIR. It’s that little smidge of time when she was married, had an amazing place with her husband… and her own apartment. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to escape my life. Well, actually I kind of am. But not in a bad way.
I. Can. Not. Write. In my family home. I just can’t. It’s mission impossible, but with less Tom Cruise (I do not want that tiny, crazy man jumping on my couch). All of the kids’ things and pictures and animals and housework I should be doing instead of writing distract me and I get absolutely nothing done. Responsibility is the absolute worst writer’s block. Wait. Best? I’m not sure. It’s the best at being a block, is what I’m trying to say.
I’ve written two and a quarter paragraphs of a blog so far and have looked up at the video baby monitor at least fourteen times, pushed the cat away from my beer three times (he needs to join AA), and suddenly been reminded that I need to buy diapers. This environment is not conducive to creating a story that adults would enjoy. Though I’m sure I could whip out a great alcoholic pet manual or grocery list.
I am totally going to be that asshole hogging a whole table at the nearby Starbucks, writing my first novel. Once my second spawn starts school. In four years. Okay, check for my book in the year 2023. Maybe it’ll be almost done. And then when it is, buy it to help compensate for all of the money I spent at Starbucks while trying to write it.