Sighing, I flop on the couch and wiggle until I’m on my stomach. Arms outstretched I hide my head and eyes.
My brain works and I taste the words on my tongue, playing them through my mind. They fall from my mouth, whispered, like jewels and I swallow them back up again, not wanting to lose any.
‘What are you doing?’ says my partner. ‘Are you hiding?’
‘No. I’m brainstorming’ I mumble. My head pops up and I look at him, cupping my chin in my hands. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, so I can’t go and brainstorm there, can I.’
‘Oh. Okay’ he says and wanders off.
I had words, before. A whole post full of words, beautiful words, strong words. I just hadn’t written them down yet. I was busily running them through my mind as I picked up toys when a harmonica drilled it’s way into my ears and chased all the words away.
I can still hear it, that damned harmonica.
Innnnn ouuuuuut innnnnnn ouuuuuut and SQUEAL!
I bury my head back in my arms and try to return to my words, but the spell is broken. My son crawls over and pulls my hair and my daughter continues to suck on that dammed mouth organ.
Standing now, I head to my computer, hoping to salvage something. Anything.
It doesn’t work, not really.
Behind me my partner switches on the vacuum and watches me typing and ignoring the housework. His gaze makes my hands trip over the words and glaring at him, I snap the laptop shut. In reality, he probably wasn’t watching my words, but I can’t work anyhow.
I stand, allowing him to vacuum underneath my desk before he heads off in one direction and I sit back down to harness my wayward words, like small flighty creatures they dart off before I can get my hands on them.
In the background, the vacuum cleaner hums still and my daughter screeches my name, imploring me to ‘let her iiiiiiiiiiin’. My son giggles at her.
It’s hard to write here and now.
But I do it anyway.
I know that feeling oh so well. At least you write anyway, I don’t write enough. I tend to just let myself have writers block than try to write through it!
ONE of the few benefits of accumulated age is that the house is quieter. That isn’t always a good thing – but when you need to concentrate – it is.
Or so I keep telling myself.
To think I used to have trouble feeling inspired to write when I was a student and lived alone…in a quiet house. Sigh.
Even when you’re finding it hard you write beatifully.
Great writing – but please tell me this – if your partner was vacuuming at a tough time – why did you nag him to do it? I refuse to accept that someone of my gender would do it voluntarily.
Glen, he vacuums voluntarily. He also does laundry and the washing up, all without me asking him too.
I find my words right before I want to sleep. lol. Not the best time to be typing away.
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