Time.

There are lots of reasons not to write. There’s always washing up, unwashed clothes, sunny weather, screaming children, illness, demanding friends, demanding partners, demanding assignments and the list goes on. As time goes on the list grows. The romantic image of the poet sitting under an oak tree with a bound book and quill is long gone. It doesn’t really happen; not unless you want to get rained on, crapped on by a bird, distracted by dog walkers, a numb cold arse and potentially bitten by an irate territorial squirrel. Don’t have the time or patience to find a nice oak tree and sit under it. A beautiful big oak tree has probably never met Blackpool either. Anyway…
Despite these reasons I’ve found that once I have this idea in my head, an idea that niggles and grows and pisses me off until I submit and put pen to paper I can’t stop. I’ve finished my first year of my degree; have three long summer months and suddenly the reasons dissolve. There won’t be washing up piling because I snack when I write, there won’t be unwashed clothes because I slob in my pyjama’s in front of the laptop, there will be no demanding friends because they’ll forget I exist in my absence, no partners as I won’t be out for that to be possible, the demanding assignments are gone and if I fall ill then the bad mood will be channelled into an ugly death scene somewhere.
Time is nice to have; it’s rather essential for a writer. And when’s it’s given generously we use it. Not under an oak tree though; tends to be in a warm home in a little cave of duvets and empty used mugs. When time lends itself properly the reasons disappear. If 10 minutes only are to spare then I’ll do the washing up and go look at the world but if given a few hours then I give myself over to fantasy completely. What I’m saying is time tends to dictate whether I give the reasons any power over me.