…midst chaos

To: washn@wipe.out
In between bouts of writing, I’m fixing more PBJ sandwiches, washing clothes, and chasing the declawed cat back outside as the humane society frowns. As I watch out the window, she terrorizes the neighborhood dogs, kills birds, moles and frogs and then meows piteously for me to rescue her from atop the roof. From my little corner… Terina

I’ve discovered that work-at-home bodies survive this way—amidst interruption.[1] ADD is no longer a disability, but a cultivated, coping skill. When someone needs fed, they stop and sandwich the bill paying, potty training and other nasty realities of life between some great slices of productivity and inspiration.

To: queenbee@bug.out@queen.bee
Today’s inspiration came while I was cleaning the bathroom with both hands in the toilet and by the time I detoxified myself and returned to the writing, the muse had eloped with my memory and I am forced begin anew. Thinking of you, Terina

Writing is so much like that toilet scrubbing. It's never easy for me. I know that sitting, perched at the edge of my mind is a bit of beautiful, therapeutic peace just balancing out there—tantalizing, swinging just out of range and each time I reach out to captivate and write, it slips away. I make one final leap as it swings my way but when I take captive triumphantly, it’s nothing but net.

Reality Bite: Magnet games on the fridge are a form of writing.

[1] The husband reassures me that “work-at-work” bodies exist the same.