A Writer's Lament. Part 2

How many people get to write in seclusion for eight hours a day? Probably not many.
Personally, my house is infested with genus and species femalus interruptus. It's not their fault. They love me, but they also look to me for approval, appreciation, and just general conversation. I can't tell you how many times I've typed "daddy look" subconsciously because that's what I was hearing in my head while I was in the typing zone.

Thank Joe Pesci for the word processor (that's an obscure George Carlin joke).

How fragile is an idea? I mean, for the most dangerous thing in the world, they are easily lost if not documented. How many times have you been writing, gripped by your own brilliance, just to hear the dog bark or the doorbell ring and lose the magic. Maybe at it's core, the idea is still there, but the fantastic words you had lined up to spell it out were gone. Perils of the business I suppose.
Maybe I should learn to type with music and wear noise cancelling headphones... or just earplugs. That way when the apocalypse happens, I won't stop typing.

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