I'm almost half way through my new book and I can't finish it.
Oh, you might say, he's got the block. Well we all get that from time to time.
Well I haven't got the block. I haven't run out of ideas, and I haven't run out of anything, except time. Why?
Because nobody will let me finish.
Every time I try to do some writing: "Roger, cut the grass, Roger, plant some flowers, Roger, muck out the horses, even thought they're not even mine, Roger, move the house three feet to the left so I can vacuum under it. Roger, Roger, Roger..." it never ends.
I suppose I could just stay up all night like I used to, but I'm getting too old for that. I barely get twenty minutes kip a day as it is. But now, with a three day weekend looming, I'm going to nail my writing room door shut and weld some ear plugs to my head. What makes it even worse, is that cowering behind the steering wheel with my notebook in hand today, it occurred to me that the original MS, about 100k words, just like most of my novels, just won't do. I think I'll need at least one hundred and fifty to finish. At this rate I'll be dead and in my coffin before I even finish.
And even then I'll probably have to move it so that she who must be obeyed can vacuum under it.