I'm starting to realize much of my writing time is stolen moments. Time seized when no one is looking. 5 am. At lunch. In the middle of the night. On a summer workshop one week retreat.
My memoir YA book took 15 years because of this, amongst other things like fear and anxiety.
Yet, as I sit here at 5:11 am, I don't know if it's a bad thing. I'm an efficient writer. Plus, I read a lot. Tons of essays, memoir, not as much fiction, but I read and read.
My dogs are whining as I write this. They want my attention. I ignore them. My brain is focused when I write. It drowns out all else. Writing centers me. It calms me.
And one day, sooner than later I hope, that calming influence with be at the center and not the periphery of my life.
So for now, I will grab these stolen moments where I can and may, creating a paragraph typed out on an iPhone as two shih tzus bark and finally, I put the phone down. After saving, of course.