The counters are crowded with dirty dishes. The beds are unmade; there is laundry to be done. There is a poopy diaper on the stairs, waiting to be taken up and rinsed. But I am sitting at the computer, writing.
This morning I had the luck of a longish phone conversation with a dear friend, one I don't get to talk to nearly as much as I would like. She, also a writer, was frustrated with the business of life, the constant demands of home and job and children and family. She is called to the page but can't find a moment to answer. "Take an hour," I urged her. "Take an hour this week and go somewhere, and write. Even if it's just in your journal about how you are feeling. Even if it's crap. Just write."
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