The girls are still snoring, Roeland is doing his manly farmer things and I’m on the porch working on my second novel. Don’t I have other things to do? Yes, but this needs to be done, this story needs to be written. It’s like the urge to push during labor.
This is how every book works. It has to, otherwise no one would ever finish a book. And to be honest? Under these circumstances I don’t mind a bit of hard work.
PS. Writing houses are available. And at the end of the day we can bitch about the writing process and read each other our most beautiful sentence of the day while drinking a local wine.
