My best writing? Right about now. Unless it was earlier.
I write when it’s not convenient, when I have four thousand other things that beg my attention: wash the dog, clean the shower grout, sleep-dammit-sleep.
The echoes of every great writer holler through the hollow halls of my brain, “You must set aside at least an hour each morning to write. A writer writes. You must hone your craft,” but I’m too busy trying not to slip on the wet floor on the way to my next thought.
Ultimately, my dog is dirty when I write. My hair is also dirty when I write. It becomes the thing I must do, that cuts in front of the rest of my life that was totally ahead in line, tapping its feet, looking really pissed and about to call my supervisor.
My mother is watching reruns of Blue Bloods in the other room when I write. I fear that roughshod phrases like “Get to the alley, forthwith!” and “This family was built on honor” will creep into my breezy dialogues between sassy thirtysomethings arguing about the dating scene.
I also fear I am writing about sassy thirtysomethings arguing about the dating scene.
The car has usurped the toilet as my idea factory, when I have to actually remember what I want to write about with no laptop handy, and a story is crafted on gas receipts and iPhone voice memos.
The writing sidles up to me, taps me on the shoulder, and when I turn, it clonks me on the head, drags me to its lair, and feeds me grapes while I question whether this is a healthy relationship.
Of course it is. I get grapes.