When jobs collide.

I haven't been published, but I think of myself as a writer, simply because I do it all the time, just as when I was in the professional world I thought of myself as a legal assistant, not because I had a degree, but because I legally assisted all the time.

However, no one is ever just a writer or just a legal assistant or just an accountant or . . . okay I think I've made my point.  My other hat, the one I rarely take off (last time was for a writer's conference I attended in September '09) is that of chauffeur, dietitian, bodygaurd, jester, educator, maid, cook, personal trainer, groomer, shopper, dresser and all around slave to a two and half foot tall blond person who has the face of an angel and a temper that's more usually attributed to redheads.  She also has a deep need to take home all things Disney princess related from wherever she finds them, you know, Walmart, Toys R Us, other children's houses.

Yesterday morning I was trying to get her to a playgroup that began at ten o'clock.  I was also being hounded by my current WIP.  Dialogue, scenes, metaphors, descriptions were churning around in my head as though my muse had inserted a stick into my brain and was whirling it around at top speed.  So there I was at quarter to ten unshowered, unbrushed, clothed in grey sweats, a t-shirt and a Snuggie (yes a bona fide Snuggie.  Favorite Christmas gift EVER!) typing as fast as my little fingers could fly.  All the while said little blond person kept asking 'time for 'nastics now Mommy?  Time for 'nastics now Mommy?' in a sort of hopeful yet despairing voice that would have skewered the heart of someone less immersed in a reality apart.

Finally when the hope gave way to high pitched screeching, I hauled my Snuggie covered bum off the couch rushed upstairs and had us both ready and out to door by ten thirty.  However, all the way to playgroup my story kept plaguing me, torturing me really with fantastic ideas that, while bouncing on trampolines and plunging thigh deep in the foam pit and holding little hands while little feet negotiated the balance beam, I had no way of getting down on paper. 

Then it was time for grocery shopping and by the time we pulled into Walmart the rabid pestering of my muse had died to a sort of fatigued, intermittent plucking.  I rushed through grocery shopping, hoping that by the time I got home and put little blondie down for her nap there would still be a spark of inspiration left that would roar once again into a bonfire when I got in front of my computer.  So home we went.  Groceries were put away, lunch was fixed and consumed (sort of) and blondie was settled in for a short winter's nap.  I hurried downstairs, turned on my laptop and sat staring at the blinking cursor while the spaces of my brain echoed back at me their emptiness.

After fifteen minutes and several false starts, I admitted defeat and, due to the prodding of little person number two who is currently baking in my oven, went to take a nap of my own. 

Yesterday's tally: Ideas, a bajillion.  Actual words on paper, zero.  Happy, appropriately fed, appropriately stimulated, well rested children, one (and a half if you count the bun if my oven). 

I guess somedays there's only time and opportunity to do one job right.  I just hope my muse comes to roost at a more opportune time today.  Note to muse: naptime is between two and four.  Bedtime is at eight thirty.  See you then (right?)