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.