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I am floundering. For the last few days I have been writing — in longhand — five new pages each day.  I have had a lot going on this week, including an overnight visit to see Mom, in Chehalis. But I did my five pages, no matter what. Today was day four. I managed, but barely, filling in the gaps with questions.

• What purpose does this scene serve?
• What does Peter look like?
• Is there just a house on this old property? Shouldn’t there be ruined outbuildings, a broken fence?
• Did they have a well?

This morning I have taken numerous breaks. I had breakfast. I brushed my teeth. I changed my clothes. Bruce has been out here three times. Pearl just dropped in to ask if her outfit looked stupid. (It didn’t.)

I thought about posting a big sign on the door: WRITER AT WORK. STAY OUT. YES! THIS MEANS YOU!

But what did they interrupt? Me, checking my email? (Again.) Me, playing yet another game of Spider Solitaire. Me, visiting other blogs and hoping for inspiration.

I’ve been waiting for inspiration to strike.

I remembered, eventually, something I once read about learning how to start. If you’ve ever meditated, then you know this. If your thoughts wander, it is counterproductive to berate yourself, or your wandery brain. Just gently nudge yourself back to the meditation. Return again and again, as often as necessary.

True with writing, too. Learn how to fall into your work easily, effortlessly. Do this 20 times each morning, or 50, however many times it’s necessary.

I looked up the etymology of work for you. This was my favorite, because it includes the word “fornication.”

work (n.) Old English weorc, worc “something done, deed, action, proceeding, business, military fortification,” from Proto-Germanic *werkan (cf. Old Saxon, Old Frisian, Dutch werk, Old Norse verk, Middle Dutch warc, Old High German werah, German Werk, Gothic gawaurki), from PIE root *werg- “to work” (see urge (v.)). In Old English, the noun also had the sense of “fornication.”

And now I think I am going to go in the house and do some laundry.

If you are a regular follower of my blog then you know that I have been working on a novel rewrite for months…and years. When I wrote the shitty first draft of this novel (thank you, Anne Lamott), my daughter Emma was two years old. Now she is fourteen. True, I have not worked on it continuously. I’ve taken years off! I’ve done other things (teaching, raising kids, writing poems). But this novel has never let me go.

Today I came across the story of another writer’s journey and once again was reminded that I’m not alone. I don’t have permission to share the excerpt, which is from the class I’m taking, but in a nutshell, she spent 16 years getting her first novel published. (You can read more about Laura Drake at her blog. I’m reading her romance, The Sweet Spot, because it’s been so highly recommended by Margie Lawson.)

Sixteen years? Laura Drake says it’s been worth it. I remember something my sister Kathy (who used to read about one romance novel per day) told me many, many years ago when I wanted to go to college. “It will take four years to get a degree,” I told her. “I’ll be thirty years old before I get it!”

We were talking on the phone, one of those ancient landlines with the big buttons and the twisty, long cord. There was a pause. And then Kathy said, “How old will you be in four years if you don’t get the degree?”