Reason #36 Why It's Tough To Be A Writer

You grab your laptop in one hand, a sparkling glass of ice tea in the other (yes, there’s a lemon slice floating in it), and toodle out to the patio. It’s the perfect afternoon for writing. Sunshine. A slight breeze. And two empty hours all to yourself. Ahh.

You set down your drink on the cute mosaic bistro table you scored on clearance, flip open your computer, bring up your WIP, poise your fingers over the keyboard as a great new plot twist percolates in your brain, and—

Your teenage girl flounces out in a sweetpea perfume cloud. “Mom, can you drive me to the mall?”
“When?”

“Now.”

“I’m writing.”
“But I have to meet so-and-so.”

“So take the bus.”

“Are you kidding? I need to be there in like fifteen minutes.”

“Need is a relative word.”

Teenage eyes roll like they’re on spin cycle. The next ‘mom’ is more drawn out than a proper southern belle…and you live in Minnesota.

“Honey,” you explain, “this is my job. I don’t see you sashaying into your dad’s office and demanding he drive you hither and tither.”

Teenage face scrunches up. “What’s a tither?”

“Never mind. The answer is no.”

“But mom—”

“No.”

Teenage feet stomp off.

Teenage feet return.

“Can you just—”

”I said no.”

Teenage growl. Feet stomp off.
Feet return, this time accompanied by the jingle of keys.

“What if I promise to make supper later and do the dishes?”

Wait for it. Hold, hold…

Huge teenage sigh. “Fine. And I’ll clean my room.”

You close your laptop and shoot to your feet. Sometimes a trip to the mall is worth it. Besides, by this point, you can’t remember what-in-the-world your plot twist was.

Yeah. Some days writing is like that.