Wrong Night to Write

Does she see the pill plunger?  She’s not stupid.  She’s runs away when she see it. 

I’m not sure of its technical name, but that’s what I call the long plastic thingy that holds the pill.  You put it in her mouth and push the plunger.  Voila, the pill is down her throat – or not.  Make sure she doesn’t spit it out.  I was offering suggestions to my husband in the other room; coaching him on how to give the cat her nightly pill. 

Anxious to finish the final read of my novel, I decided to forgo a book launch (regrets) and a writers’ meeting (missed the gang), both scheduled for that night.  

My husband suggested we relax in front of the fire if I wasn’t going out, and then he would finish preparing the roast beef dinner I had started.  I agreed to a timeout, thinking that an hour away from the desk wouldn’t hurt.

After the break, it seemed as if I just started back on the computer when he called me upstairs for dinner.  I’m not sure about other writers, but when I’m denied an overpowering urge to write or work on a manuscript, the thoughts in my head turn to an ache in my stomach.  

Following the post-dinner cleanup, I put off a couple of other evening chores until morning.  I was practically chomping at the bit to get back in my office.  After checking my notes, I found where I’d left off in the manuscript.  That’s when I heard him calling the cat. 

I had asked as a favour if he would give Tiki her nightly pill.  Something he avoids, if possible.  Just sit back in your recliner and she’ll come to you, I called out from the office. 

I read another paragraph of the manuscript. 

No, she ran upstairs, now, he said as he passed the office door. 

I rubbed my forehead.  Do you want me to do it? 

No, no, he insisted, you keep working.

I read the next paragraph only to realize it was the same paragraph.  There was a time when disruptions didn’t disturb my train of thought.  Not anymore. 

At the sound of a crash upstairs, I pushed my chair back from the desk.  What happened?  Are you okay? 

He laughed.  I tripped on the mat when Tiki ran between my feet and I fell back against the stove.  I’m okay. 

Never mind about her pill, I called up to him.  I’ll give it to her when I come to bed. 

I read the next paragraph − at least I thought it was the next paragraph. 

Moments later Marv came into the office.  I gave the cat her pill, no problem.  We both grinned. 

What’s wrong with your arm, I asked, as he dabbed blood with a tissue. 

That’s nothing, he said, it happened when I tripped.

After a goodnight kiss, I wheeled back to my desk and stared at the screen until I found my place.  Phyllis, he called down to me, could you let the dog out before you come to bed. 

I thought of my four-day writing retreat at Thanksgiving.  The unbroken silence.  Days and nights of writing and reflection.

I yawned once, and then yawned again.  The house was quiet.  I scrolled down the screen to ‘The End’.  I scrolled back up.  My sigh told me I wouldn’t be reaching ‘The End’ − not for another day. 

I shut down the computer, turned out the light, and called the dog.