When the familiar itch to write attacks my bones I must answer the call immediately. The disparaging part of this inner cry is that it frequently comes at the worst possible times like when I’m driving on the highway, earning a paycheck, or bathing the children. When unable to heed the call to write, I feel tiny pieces of my passion dwindle away.
It hits me sometimes, almost like an erotic urge. I search frantically for a pen and paper and began to carve out a scene that has been burning in my head. While bathing my children and entertaining them with a bath time tune, I am simultaneously thinking of what I am going to make my character do next: does she fall ill and become hospitalized? Does her husband leave her? How can I use symbolism in the story to convey deeper meaning?
On and on I will go thinking about what I could be writing, words that I could be shifting through trying to use in intelligent ways. However strong the pull is to write, I stay at my task because, for the time being, bathing children is a priority. I assure myself that one day, one sweet calm day my writing will come first.