Continuing with a post from my writing course that I
am in. We are discussing the "space" that authors write in. Sometimes the "space" is easy and sometimes the "space" is difficult.
The goal is to try to picture the worst place for you to try to write. Here
is my “difficult space”.
The difference between an amateur and a professional
is in their habits. An amateur has amateur habits. A professional has
professional habits. We can never free ourselves from habit. But we can replace
bad habits with good ones. Steven Pressfield
***
I woke this morning
with a migraine and although I wanted to turn over and go back to sleep, the
glaring sunlight runs the shadows out of the room. Down the hall, I hear the
toilet flush and the two girls bickering…again.
“Morning, go away,” she
growled in despair.
Her hand flared out and
the empty place beside her brought back the burdens of life, which did not stop
on an account of a migraine. She flung an arm over her eyes and begged to the
invisible forces for five more minutes of sleep while fighting back tears of
overwhelming frustration. Jake was gone. He wouldn’t be coming back. It has
been six months but still seemed like yesterday.
The harsh beeping of
the alarm clock made her jump. She swung her arm off her eyes, it landed on the
alarm clock, and she all but threw it across the room. The migraine pounded.
She sat up, put her
feet on the floor and waited until the dizziness passed. Routinely she stood,
got dressed in days old jeans that hadn’t been washed recently and Jake’s
button down shirt. She put on her pink
fuzzy slippers and went into the kitchen to get the cereal bowls ready for the
girls who hadn’t stopped bickering.
Fruit Loops were poured
into one bowl and a few crumbs fell out into the other one. Great another reason for the girls to
bicker. She grabbed the Coco Puffs, and then the milk. She packed their school
lunches and heard the girls come down the hall.
Not in the mood for any
nonsense, she put her hands on the counter and put a stern look on her face.
The girls walked in while in the middle of an argument and both went silent
when they saw their mom.
She noticed the grimace
as one girl saw the Coco Puffs and immediately went to the bowl of Fruit Loops.
The other girl was about to argue when Mom burrowed her eyebrows and pursed her
lips together. Without a sound, she sat and ate.
The bus arrived early
and she scooted the girls out the door and watch them board. After it left, she
surveyed the mess her house was in: dirty clothes piled up, dishes in the sink
needing to be washed, the kitchen hadn’t been mopped in a couple of months and
neither had the vacuum been run in the other rooms.
Her head still pounding
she got a cup out of the cupboard and poured herself a glass of water to down
her medicine. She had never been a coffee drinker, instead poured herself a
large glass of sweet tea, and grabbed a banana off the counter.
How
could she write today? The deadline, damn that deadline, but it paid the bills.
She carried her mug of motivation down the
hall to her cluttered desk, woke her computer up from sleep mode and opened her
word document. Silence beat down upon her and she started Pandora to play Kenny
G in the background. The soft lighting, soothing music, medication, and caffeine
set in as she transported herself into her fantasy world giving her temporary
relief from the harsh reality of her own.
