Just three more days until the writing marathon begins.  I can’t hardly even think about Radiohead right now.  I can’t think about anything but getting my ass in front of that desk and typing away in to the long long night. 

This obsession is healthy.

Normally this wouldn’t pose a problem except that I am a responsible grownup now.  When I was a kid I could hole up in my room and write all I want and never leave except to go to the bathroom.  At some point that changed.  Now I have a job and a partner and people expecting me to do things, and so now there are consequences when I check out.

Take tonight for instance.  I have this meeting I’m supposed to go to.  It was scheduled months ago.  It will last for three hours.  That is three hours that I could better spend passionately engaged with my protagonist, digging le mot just, all undisturbed in my solitude.  And all I want is to flake out California-style and blow off the whole meeting, not tell anyone, just drive home and write until I crash.  The pull is intense.  I’m like an addict jonesing for a long-overdue hit.

But the fear of pissing people off and having to explain myself makes a coward of me all. 

My body will go to the meeting.  But my mind will go to Spain.