So, Andrew came up last night, as I mentioned in a prior post. I didn't really get much sleep. The bed is small here and we are big, and I just couldn't get much done while he was here. I think I wrote about 800 words the whole time. He was here for about 20 hours.
The whole time he was here I kinda wanted him to leave, even though he was being SO good and quiet and reading alone in the other room to leave me to write. I just couldn't do it while he was here!
Now he's gone and, of course, I just wish he would come back. I wish he were in the other room reading quietly. But he's taking his mother to Yorktown Heights to see Monica perform in the Sound of Music.
Writing is getting to be a little lonesome. And it's not being out here in the desert that's making me feel lonely. (Okay, I'm in the Hamptons, not the desert.) It's the actual writing. I was in the middle of this abstract dream sequence and feeling very writerly, but then I just got... lonesome.
I wish I could smoke in here. It's distracting to have to go outside every time. As much as I've tried not to, I have linked writing to smoking so that it's quite a challenge to have to get started on the old manuscript without lighting up.
And here's me, right around now.
Now, back to the writing with me.
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