It was uncomplicated and obvious: sit and write.
But she could not. Not with the kids, and the dishes, and the emails, and the days that required all of the mental fortitude and focus she could mine from within the depths of her weary being. She was always buzzing with the undercurrent of restless energy and unsympathetic distraction.
But writing was like water. For a period it could be replaced with unfulfilling stand-ins- photography, antiquing, needlepoint- but inevitably she would be left dehydrated, wilting until she lifted pen to paper again. With each word inked she could breathe a little more deeply, as she peered through the fog and made out the illumination of something hinting at greatness.
bookworm_shawn 