My children have hijacked my life.
It happens every year in June and lasts until September. They have duct-taped my laptop shut and cavort half-naked around it, brandishing plastic baseball bats and gardening tools and chomping the air with their sharp little teeth.
I threw a box of popsicles into the back yard and when they ran for it, I grabbed the laptop and the box cutter and locked the bathroom door behind me.
Soon, they will cut out my brain and dress it up like a hula dancer. They will toss it back and forth over my lifeless body, laughing like hyenas.
Oh, no. Money won’t help me now. Send sympathy. Fast.
I wonder what gets in the way of your writing and how you manage to cope. Have any pointers?