From what I hear from other writers, they get little of no help from their families. Now I don't want to diss the families of every writer in the world so if I'm wrong, then I apologise.
Daddy's got a little hobby - let's leave him to it and only disturb him when there's something annoying to do like painting the kitchen again because my wife, who made me paint it last year when I was trying to irritate her by painting on my day off, suddenly decided that it was just the wrong shade of puce.
I got some more editing done today whilst I was supposed to be working. My own computer is making noises like an asthmatic walrus, not that I've ever heard the aforementioned creature, but I bet it would be just like that. I've been using n android tablet with a kind of word processing package that evidently saves as a Word Doc. Don't believe it. I may as well have scribbled it down on a wall and then traced the words onto a notebook before typing the whole thing all over again.
It's raining, the Olympics has buggered everything up and I'm bored. I can't go outside for fear of being run down by hurtling racing bikes, or hurtling sports viewers heading away from all the empty seats, who unlike in America, don't get them for free but have to watch it on TV after being refused tickets in the first place for fear of upsetting the Olympic committee, who wouldn't care because they're safely ensconced in their Zill lanes that we have to pay a £150 fine for even straying near.