I am home alone tonight and have the opportunity to write. It is quiet and peaceful. I have made tea. I have settled down with my laptop at my new desk - now all freshly painted and eager with anticipation that I shall be writing my best-selling novel at it. The conditions are, you might suggest, absolutely perfect.
So what happened - why no additional wordcount, why no excitement over finishing another chapter? Well firstly my neighbour arrived requiring some help of a technical nature. I knew that I would be unable to help and may get her into even more of a technological muddle than the one she started with, but I did manage to chat on the doorstep for at least ten minutes and maybe more. I did stop myself from asking her in for a cup of tea, which I normally would. You did ok, I tell myself. It wasn't too much of a distraction - now back to it.
Right settle back down, pour another cup of tea, hands on keyboard and... Oh, I'll just have a quick look at my online bank account. Right that's done. Settle back down, hands on keyboard. Phone rings. Shall I leave it? No better not - it might be important. How nice, it's my friend from America ringing. I do love to talk to her and so I do. Forty-five minutes later we are done and very enjoyable it was too. So settle down again. Tea's gone cold. Need a new fresh brew. Put the kettle on. Think about writing, hands on keyboard.
And this is how it goes. Although I've read Stephen King's book on writing, I guess I'm not yet at the stage he talks about below:
“When you sit down to write, write. Don't do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off.”
Sounds like wise advice and I don't need the bathroom, although I'd better start limiting my tea intake in future.
And then I think: "I wonder what's going on with the Olympics?"