It's St. Patrick's Day, so I've been engaging in leprechaun-like shenanigans. And no, I'm not referring to alcohol. You all know your Nesting Ground Mistress cannot partake in spirits lest she become covered in hives and unable to breathe. What I've been doing, dear ones, is looking for a room of my own.
Before we had kids, I used to be able to write at home. It was always neat and quiet and conducive to work. Now, of course, with the addition of our spawn, it is madness. Endearing, homey madness, but madness nevertheless. There is always something that needs to be done: laundry, vacuuming glitter, putting away toys, emptying the dishwasher for the bazillionth time, bills, la-di-da-di-da. The truth is, I actually have time to write now, but I'm always looking out of the corner of my eye at the piled up dishes or the errant recycling, a habit which makes it impossible to write. To make matters worse, it's not as if I get off my butt to do the dishes or corral the recycling; I stay exactly where I am, MOPING. In short, nothing is getting done to my satisfaction in any area of my life.
I've tried the library, as you know. And it often works. But just as often, the books and the people-watching distract my already distract-able self. There's only one solution. If it's not, in fact, the solution, then I'm officially out of excuses and you may punish me as you will. But really, I think a room of my own will do it. That's why tomorrow morning I'm going to check out a little loft space close by. A place I can go for a few hours during the week where, when I arrive, I just sit down and write.