When quizzed about weight-loss issues, Courtney Cox has oft-been quoted as saying that when a woman reaches a certain age, she has to make a choice - face or butt?
I had to apply a similar analogy at home today. Writing or a nice, clean house? Ok, it doesn't quite work, but I've OD'd on Cillit Bang. My brain's messed up.
The down-side of the lovely sunshine we're having is the sudden - not to mention unwelcome - highlighting of hitherto unnoticed cobwebs, grime and dust, previously hidden by winter gloom. I thought about putting my shades on and ignoring it, but that would have looked silly.
I tried sitting down and grimly typing, but it was too late. I Couldn't Relax. Instead, I donned my rubber gloves and, on the premise that I would continue to think about my story/chapter as I worked, I set-to with plenty of vim and vigour.
I'm sure somebody famous once said that "much of writing is thinking...staring into space." If they didn't they should have. It's true. The trouble is, I think they meant fixing your gaze on a distant horizon, not scowling like a demon whilst scrubbing dementedly at stubborn jam stains with a brillo pad. I don't need to tell you that coaxing grease off the hob didn't inspire me in quite the same way that a sun-drenched landscape might have.
Ah well. Four hours later, my cupboards were clean and I'd had an idea for a short story. A crime story. Involving a murder. And a feather-duster.