Hello...?

Sunday afternoons for a writer are lonely.

Granted, the uninterrupted block of time is more than welcome. No phone calls, emails... nothing but a whole ten to fifteen hours to do nothing but write.

The problem?

It means I have nothing to do but write.

Friends and neighbors know that I'm unlikely to answer the phone, respond to instant messages, texts or emails... much less be agreeable to going out, so they don't even bother anymore. This should be a good thing; I should be grateful to them for being so supportive. Don't get me wrong.. I am grateful for their support. Really.

But it means I feel obligated to write. Oh, I get sidetracked. The dog needs to go out, there's a load of laundry that needs to be folded, I should call Mom. Maybe I should check my website and see if I've had any new hits, do I have any voicemail? Oh, there's a great movie on...

You see, writers, as much as we're driven to write, are notorious procrastinators. To actually sit down and concentrate on nothing but writing means that we actually have to face the demon that resides within; that creature that fills us with fear that we'll have nothing, nothing of any value to write. That our life's work is crap and it won't sell and the publisher will run us out on a rail and have us blacklisted so nobody will ever work with us again. So we look for distractions. Any distractions. Bless my friends for being supportive, but I sometimes really wish somebody would call me up and save me from this mental torture.

But I still won't answer the phone.