I'm sure I could write better if I cleared off my desktop. But then I would have to empty the trash, replenish the garbage bags after a trip to the store, put the wet, almost-stinky clothes that have been sitting in the washer since Tuesday into the dryer, refill the washer with my my pile of dirty clothes blocking the downstairs hallway, load up the dishwasher with what is sitting in the sink and take my clean clothes back upstairs to put away. Then I would return to my desk to write, and it would be time to leave for my 2:00 appointment.

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...picked up a pen... or keyboard... and emptied my mind of the clamoring demands of life in the suburbs... demands most often self-inflicted. Learning the gift of selfishness would provide a freedom only dreamed about... both in writing and living.
could find the words to accurately describe the emotions I feel, the colors I see, and the world inside my head...but I'm fairly certain the words just don't exist. Or they do exist, but they are hiding because they don't like me.
I could write better if I could get my head to work right, if I could get enough sleep, and if I didn't have to worry about money all the time. Desktop? Wish I had one. I write on a table in my little studio apartment; it's just big enough for my computer.....if my catkids aren't sitting there! I could also write better if they weren't so cute as to be distracting!!!! Hard to write when you can't resist their cuteness!
would rewrite my paragraphs using the thesaurus to come up with more original words and expressions than the plain old ones I am using all the time.
I'm sure I could write better if I could just get my Self out of the way and let the words do what they would do, say what they want to say, go where they will go. There is a buddhist saying that "freeing oneself from words is liberation;" I say "freeing one's words from Self is also liberation."
If I stopped waiting for the "perfect idea" and just sat down to let the words flow out of my fingers over the keyboard and onto to the page.
...blew magic sleeping dust into the eyes of my children, then crept away with my laptop.
if I could get my Kovac Typewriter fixed, (I hate writing fiction on a computer)
...were half-crocked in the corner with ben johnson. no, wait, hemingway! jim morrison? nevermind.
My finish to the above sentence includes two personal excuses that happen to be true.

A: if I knew how to write.
B: if I weren't so damn lazy.

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