The last couple weeks have been an exercise in How Life Intrudes on Art: between my work at the Institute, and dealing with children, I've hardly been able to write a word. The Institute has been keeping me busy in the evenings, and the last few days Daniel has had a cold, which has meant that the time I might have spent writing-- or at least noodling-- is absorbed in trying to get him back to bed. Not that I have any doubts at all about which is more important: on my deathbed I won't regret having stayed up with my son rather than worked on my book.
But even when it's going swimmingly, writing always seems to take much longer than I expect. I don't think this is merely a function of my being a slow writer. The published work has a quality of being self-evident, of being so obvious, that it's not clear why it should take so damn long to get to that point. Or at least it should have the at quality, if it's any good.