Sometimes I hear about writers who build themselves underground bunkers or some other form of isolation booth in which to work, and then sequester themselves there for months on end while they spin their feeble magic. And, when I consider these folks, my tendency is to scoff. Oh, I might start out by merely snickering or raising a sardonic eyebrow, but I usually end up shaking my head in a knowing fashion and dismissing them as wimps and weenies. This is probably motivated by jealousy.
For there are other times in which I truly envy them their ivory towers. Times like the last several days, times when, just because of real life, I get next to no work done. In fact, I hardly even think of working because there are obligations to attend to and crises to avoid.
Which is just a longwinded way of saying that I haven't gotten much done over the last few days. And it is a shame, because the chapters I'm rewriting now need less work to get them where they belong. I just haven't had the time or the concentration. I am, however, hoping to remedy that today and in the next couple of days.
Unless, of course, life intrudes.