When I get caught up, really caught up in writing fiction, everything else falls away. My worries, my responsibilities, my sense of time. One minute it is 9:00 a.m. and I’m talking to my mother about making plans to visit for my daughter’s graduation, the next minute it is 6:00 p.m and my daughter is asking what time we’re eating dinner.
Laundry did not get done. Bills did not get paid. The car sat unused in the driveway. Friends and family, once again, got ignored. And then there’s dinner. It’s hard to give a time estimate for a meal when you don’t know what you’re going to serve.
“We’re having big salads with baked chicken breasts sliced on top. Around 7:30.” That’s me pretending I know if we have salad ingredients and chicken in our refrigerator.
“Great. Will Dad be home?” That’s my daughter.
“Yes.” That’s me pretending I spoke to my husband today, pretending I know whether he has a meeting tonight and when he’ll be home.
This time, the gods were working in my favor. The food was there. The husband came home just before 7:30.
Next time, maybe they’ll get around to the laundry.
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