The roof is coming down as I write, and I can’t help thinking about how easily the creative mind can be pulled away from its work. At least for me. I am a bit restless by nature, and sitting for any length of time for the soul purpose of writing is a bit of a challenge. I hop up to let the dogs in and out, to steal a snack from the fridge, or make one if I’m unsatisfied with the contents. I grab at the pauses between inspiration to check my emails and Facebook and reply to messages. This is how the minutes slip by before I can reign them in again and use them for the purpose I set out to.
Now, the roof is coming down outside of the window where I usually sit to write. I could move, but I don’t. Instead, my eyes pull toward the sounds of shingles sliding on plastic tarps and the shadows they make in their reckless descent toward the ground. My mind pauses between my character’s thoughts to worry about the cloths hanging on the line precariously within reach of the avalanche of shingles that once adorned the peak of my home.
Suddenly, it’s nearly time for the school bus to groan around the corner of my street to deliver my son home and I realize the 70 page mark may not be met today, or at least not during me kid-free hours. Oh well, there’s alway another moment to grab.