IWSG—Writers, coming together on the first Wednesday of every month for a virtual pat on the back.
If only I could purchase time in a store. Or get it online like window blinds. I’d even purchase a lottery ticket if the prize were Time.
If I could make more Time to write, it’d be like a crocheted afghan. Or a painting. Form it into a paper airplane and keep it from flying away with every insignificant breeze.
I need Time, more hours in the twenty-four allotted to me to get done what needs to get done.
And all those little tasks vying for my attention, waiting to drain me of my Time. Fixing fence when the cattle get out, feeding the dog that begs, cleaning a toilet, answering the phone. Life keeps interfering with my teeny tiny portion of Time.
I need to find the Time to do the necessary stuff that keeps the house semi-tidy, groceries in the cupboards, bills paid, and toilet paper in the bathroom.
Exercise is important but It. Takes. Time.
Who can find Time to write a new novel when there are other literary tales that need spun. Like editing, blogging, critiquing, answering email, promotional intrigues, book reviews, and checking other blogs.
And, gee, maybe every now and then I *might* want to take the Time to read what someone else has written.
Is there a pocket of Time buried like in a coalmine? A seam of Time like silver waiting to be mined? Like a field of wheat waving its golden heads in anticipation of harvest?