Which means I could only crank more words if I got away from my office, since various family members usually come in every 2 minutes with various issues: "He breathed on me, Mom!" ( I can't help that, honey, deal with it) And "can I go to John's house?" (I have no idea who John is, so, um, no) "Will you give me $10 so I can go get a pizza?" (Do I look like I have $10?) Or, "The dog has something in her mouth!" (get it out) and "Did you pick up the stuff from the dry cleaner, hon?" (um, no, I forgot.)
But as I headed out the door with visions of sugarplum writing brilliance dancing in my head, my husband said, "Where art thou going, my lovely vision of beauty?" (Cliff Notes Shakespearean translation: Hey, where ya goin'? Don't tell me you're going to leave me with the kids today?")
I told him of my wonderful mountain plan! He urged me not to go.
"Why, are you afraid of me getting attacked by mountain lions or bears? Don't worry, I'm sure they're afraid of laptops!"
He, of being the protective sort both in business and in life, said: "No, serial rapists."
I figured he had a point. I should probably avoid rapists, killers AND bears and not sit outside alone on a mountaintop (this, and I have NO SURVIVAL SKILLS.)
"Good idea," I said. "I'm heading towards a town at the base of the mountains. I'll write at a Starbucks or something."
Hours later, while circling a Virginia town, in search of a writing place with an electrical outlet, I could find no Starbucks. I found only a Burger King. The first plug by the window with the mountain view did not work. The BK employee graciously steered me towards the back of the restaurant where the outlet worked. It was next to a foul-smelling restroom.
I ordered coffee and resigned myself to my new writing home for the afternoon.
The smell was horrendous, but within minutes, a kind employee came by and began cleaning. I watched him mop floors, open up the bathroom doors and clean, spray disinfectant, and try to freshen the place up.
I watched as people sat down at tables around me: the old woman who read the entire paper next to me. The kids who had come in on their skateboards, talking about the latest video game. A guy who told me he wished he had one of "them there things." (I'm guessing he meant the laptop.) And a sweet older man, wearing a veterans cap loaded with pins, shuffled past me with his cane.
I remembered it was Veterans Day weekend, so I stopped him.
"You a veteran?" I asked.
"Yes," he proudly said.
"Well, I just wanted to thank you for serving our country," I said. "How long did you serve?"
"28 years," he responded. "I was with the Air Force."
"I bet you moved everywhere," I said.
"Yes. But then I worked another 20 years for the Commonwealth of Virginia, so I didn't have to move anymore. I did security work."
"Thank you so much for your service," I said.
"Thank you very kindly, young miss," he said. (I loved him for calling me this!)
I went back to my work. Wrote about 2500 words, but it wasn't pretty. It was a powerful scene I was writing, and I had the gorgeous mountains next to me, but... the muse wasn't coming.
What I've learned from Nanowrimo is that sometimes the muse doesn't come when directed. In that case, you have to keep writing. No matter where you are, what you are doing or who is around you, you have to keep writing. There may not be a Starbucks with roaring fireplaces and leather couches and Skinny Caramel Macchiatos (highly recommended) nearby. There might only be a Burger King with a smelly restroom, a hardworking employee having to deal with said restroom, and a wonderful United States veteran who has served this country most of his life, but you've got to keep writing, my friends.
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