It's that time again. I have trial. Why is it that every time I get seriously deep into my writing, a trial pops up demanding that I keep unconscionable hours at the office? Are the writing muses testing my patience by throwing these obsticles in my way? Are the legal gods telling me to hang up my pen and paper because my only talent is being a royal pain in the patoot?
I need at least forty-eight hours in a day to get done everything on my "to do" list. Laundry calls (or I could just go buy new underwear), floors need to be mopped (then again, there are throw rugs), calls beckon to be returned (if they really want to speak with me, they will call back, right?), and I have the glaring word count to be met each day. Oh, and I think I need to eat a meal or two (worry not - if you have seen me, you know I can find my way to food).
I know the adage that if you want something done, give it to a busy person. Well, I am the busy person. Please, don't give me anymore. My plate is full. Seriously. It looks like I hit a workload buffet. I am good. I don't need another serving. Really.
So, as the clock ticks closer to midnight, I contemplate the need to write while working. I love to write. It is fun. The escape is far more enjoyable, for me, than going out to a movie where I am limited to someone else's imagination. But work keeps the lights on and food on the table. Why do I write? Is it because of the trials and tribulations at work, or despite of them? You tell me.