Sorry for the no postage. I’ve been working on a script. Getting paid to write is quite the motivator, I must say. But, wow, oh wow, is it hard to get anything done around the house. I’ve had to hie out to the country where I have a house in the woods with no internet, hardly any phone, no wife, no children, no dogs and nothing to do but sit there all day and write.
I can’t get anything done at home. Zilch. There’s way too much stuff to do. Well, some of that is generated by me. Empty the dehumidifer out of the basement, trim the mint, get the recalcitrant child to trim the hedge, feed the dogs, get coffee, fill the hummingbird feeder, feed the bees, you know important stuff that gets the brain in gear so one can write.
However, there’s a lot more at home than important hummingbird stuff. There’s the “Are you doing anything?” question. The one that comes when I’m staring off into space, not lifting anything or cleaning anything or dumping stuff from an overstuffed closet. The one that comes when you’re thinking about the damn script, but aren’t using any muscle other than the brain.
And then, because I’m looking like I’m doing nothing, I get asked to accomplish something. Something like carrying all the furniture out of one bedroom so it can be painted. Thank God I’m not the one doing the painting.
Anyway, I have to fight and claw and scrape and leave the county to get anything done.
If you don’t have a house in the country, I can tell you what you do have… a library. And a library that won’t let you have a cell phone. So, if you have to work, go to the library. Get work done and people will leave you the hell alone. Libraries are wonderful. I thank all the steel workers for their suffering every time I go into one of Mr. Carnegie’s little oases of wonder.
Get thee to a library, go.
Get out of the fucking house.
Faulkner left his first wife, they say, because she never figured out that when he was staring out the window, he was working.
Being left alone.
And the pages pile up.