So here I am, with a sink full of dirty dishes, ebow-deep in Ivory liquid.

This doesn’t seem right somehow. I’ve got a great image in my mind. Woman. Lover. Forbidden relationship in a gothic, forbidden setting. It has the clarity of a photograph in my mind, and I just know it would result in a fantastic scene for one of my long-suffering works in progress. I’m just so full of this scene that wants to burst out of me that I can’t even focus on what I’m doing. A moment ago I grabbed my thyroid pill container and nearly put it in the water to wash.
One hour. Maybe two. If I can just get this scene, or a short chapter written, I’m sure I’ll be able to concentrate on the mundane stuff I need to do…just a little time at the computer. That’s all it would take…

*** *** *** ***

Two hours later.

Not only have I only written five–count ‘em, FIVE–measly sentences and a half-hearted description, but my butt cheeks are going numb. I KNOW this scene, I SEE this image. But I can’t seem to focus on it, knowing I’ve got dirty dishes, and floors that need to be mopped, and at least three loads of laundry to do, and bills to be paid.
Maybe if I do a little housework, get it out of the way, I’ll be able to concentrate on the writing I need to do…just a little time on the mundane stuff. That’s all it would take…