I was struggling this past weekend to write. It shouldn't be hard for me to write; after all, I've been doing it all my life. Writing at home is hard; I'm reminded of Neal Stephenson's comment in an interview about his being a "ruthlessly bad correspondent," because if he answered emails he'd never get any work done. One of the things he says is that he can do a lot with a four-hour block of time as long as he knows he's not going to be interrupted.
That's true for me as well. Not the four-hour block, but the lack of interruption. As most of my long-time readers know, I write during my commute on a county bus, or at a cafe' near my home, most of the time. I can get a lot done in a half-hour, as long as I'm absolutely confident that no one will interrupt me.
In the past three days I've written 5,596 words. All on one story, Moi Neuroses, which is a Shardik Journal Entry (gasp, yes I can still write those) in which Shardik and a Sterling woman develop a curious relationship, and how Aaden sort-of freaks out over it. After two weeks of no-writing-time madness, it was nice to be able to get back into a groove (or is it a rut?) that I had missed for far too long.
All I needed was a block of time, no matter how small, during which I knew I would not be interrupted by work or family.