This is the perfect writing climate for me: It’s between 65 and 70 degrees, I’m sitting in my favorite spot in the living room with my cats beside me, I can hear doves outside the window, and when I look out onto my porch, I can see the gorgeous orange lilies that I planted this weekend. It’s also raining, but not hard enough that I need to worry about closing my windows. Normally, if you throw in a nice cup of coffee, I could sit here for hours and write until the cows come home. But for some reason, today, I’m distracted.
Could it be the fact that our area hasn’t seen the sun in nearly a week and more rain is on the way? Is it work stress? I’m not sure. To explain just how distracted I am, I’ll admit that at least five minutes have passed between the time that I wrote the last sentence and this one. It doesn’t bode well when this is supposed to be my writing night.
All day I’ve thought about the writing I could get done tonight. I’ve got the house to myself—except for my fuzzy babies—and I had originally planned to follow my characters through a really exciting sword fight with pirates. In fact, I think I’ll get started on that right now. Yessiree, I’m just going to open up my manuscript, flip it open to the page where I left off, and start writing … oh, look! A rerun of Friends is on! I can always write tomorrow, right?