Mountain Dad, for all his quirky and entertaining ways, cannot be faulted for his loyal support of my half-arsed desires. I want to act, he bullies me out the door and to workshops and then only quietly laments when we don't see each other for a few months of rehearsals and performances. I make quiet note of the fact that I rarely get out exercising and it doesn't matter the country, I repeat, it doesn't matter in which country we may be, he nags my jiggly butt out the door and into the nearest pool, ocean, forest.
And I whine to him of how I just love writing and yet never seem to get the chance with the Mountain Kids bleating at my heels. That kind of lame refrain carries no weight with this Life Coach. Before I can think of a defence, he's organised my mornings so that Little Ladie is off to a playgroup and I'm out to a coffee shop, iPad in hand, "to write."
And so here we are. Buddy and me. In the coffee shop. Sitting. Waiting for inspiration to hit. The words to flow. The writing to get written.
Maybe it's too warm in the sun here and so my mind is too lethargic. Maybe I know too many people here and so the distractions are many. Maybe I need the pressure of less time.
I'll try to do better next Writing Monday.