Don't bother me I'm writing

Just as I was preparing to hit "publish" with immense satisfaction, I heard the sounds of Lily's shrill voice: "Eww, gross. Get away from me. Don't touch me." Followed by, "Mommy. MOMMY. Ashlyn took off her poopy diaper, and there's poop all over the floor and the couch, and the dog is eating it." This latest string of events ties in perfectly with today's themes of catastrophe, fatalism and stupid dumb luck. I don't know how other writers get through the holidays -- especially writers with children -- but I've written nothing substantial since the last week in November, and I'm feeling rather bitter about the ongoing drought. Furthermore -- the powers that be having a little fun at my expense -- all the gossip shows are profiling new authors who share something quite depressing in common -- medicare. What if the world does end on Dec. 21, 2012? I have less than a year to publish my book, and -- looking at the thing ...

I'm nesting. I'm not pregnant or ever planning on becoming pregnant again. I'm nesting because our house is full of crap -- shiny bobbles, musical toys, farm equipment (?? ask my husband) -- which makes it difficult for a person with ADD to concentrate on breathing let alone writing. I had a wonderful cozy room for writing and reading and hiding from my family, but somebody sent us a rather large play farm for Christmas. It's an awesome toy -- it has its own circuit board and all of the 9,999 pieces light up with the flip of a switch -- but it's taken over my dining-room table that seats 8 people. So I tore down my writing room today to make room for my children's toys. The process started in Lily's room, where I filled two wardrobe boxes and two standard-size moving boxes with toys from just her closet. There's still shit everywhere. I realized about half-way through the process of clearing Lily's room that I didn't have any place prepa...