Life likes to get in the way of writing sometimes, doesn’t it?
When moving out of our condo, I had to choose between finishing up my writing, or filling up boxes with books and clothes. We put most of our stuff into a storage unit, taking a fraction of what we had to my in-laws’ house, and then I had to figure out how to get my writing done in a cramped space with only a handful of my belongings to rifle through. And now we’re actually getting a house this week, and every time I sit down to write, I have to sit down to sign a new form, look at a new thing.
It’s tiring, it’s frustrating. I haven’t been as productive as I think I should have been.
But. I have been producing. I’ve edited pages, plotted out chapters. I’ve committed to writing blog posts and actually sticking with it.
It’s hard to get things done when outside forces mess up your funky flow. But at least I’m getting something done.
And hey, I’m getting a house, with a backyard and a basement and everything, like real adults have. So there’s that.