There are times when stuff just seems to get in the way of writing. Or at least, I let stuff get in the way of writing.
Take this week for example. I nearly finished my latest story, Divine Wine, last Sunday. I was within a thousand or so words of wrapping it up. Monday morning, I cranked out about 300 words, and edited another 200. Then it was off to work.
When I got home, there was email waiting in my personal account. It was from my attorney. See, a couple of years ago, my psycho-ex walked out on me and the kids, and filed for divorce a few months later.
The divorce dragged on for a couple of years, but the bottom line is that I have to split everything I own with the psycho.
Fast forward to Monday night. My house is on the market, and I've got to split profits with the crazy one. No one's looked at the house for about six months, and the attorney wanted to know how things were going. When she found out no one had looked at the house (her fee is wrapped up in those profits), she lit a fire under the ass of the real estate agent.
That set me on edge for Monday. On Tuesday, the agent called to set up an appointment for someone to look at my house this Friday. I spent the week cleaning and fuming.
I don't really want to move. I can't afford the house and hate the neighbors. I'd be better off in another house, but hate the prospect of moving, and I don't like feeling as though I've been shoved out of my current house.
Yeah, I know. I just can't be please. Get used to it. Nothing and no one please me for long -- except for Sam. (None of your business.)
So I've put off finishing Divine Wine for this entire week, because the prospect of moving has me crazy.
fuck
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