Sit. Desk. Write.

What began as a light-hearted post about my husband worrying I spend too much time on the computer has turned into something I’d rather not have examined.  (After all, this from a man with three 24″ monitors; who is he to be slinging cyberspace arrows?)    

If I’m honest in responding to him, he might have a point.    

What’s that I said?  My husband might have a point?  Ugh.    

My initial reaction is denial.  I’m not spending too much time on the computer.  Did I not tell the world I’d write five pages a day?  Did I not create a blog?  Who knew widgets could be so intriguing or statistics so exciting?  Is this another distraction keeping me from writing?     

It’s come down to analyzing my new writing schedule:     

Five a.m…  I’m on the computer in a golden zone where thoughts shoot out of my fingertips.  I’m pumped for at least two hours, maybe five. When the good stuff starts to slip away, yes, I stray into electronic connections; e-mail, FB, my blog, other blogs, daily headlines, my favorite crossword puzzle.     

What my husband sees:  Me, propped up by three pillows, typing in my pajamas on the bed in the spare bedroom.     

Eight, nine or ten a.m…  I need to move my body so I walk our waiting dog for an hour; rain or shine or blistering heat.  When we return, I shower and do a few household things, depending on the clock.    

What my husband sees:  Nothing; he’s in his office, barricaded against the world, focused on his work.    

Noon…  I try to write again, back in the spare bedroom, but take a moment with my media centers.  Sometimes, I’m sidetracked by Lindsey Lohan’s latest predicament.  If this happens, I work on another project, say researching the perfect agent and constructing a query letter.    

What my husband sees:    Me, on the bed when he comes out for lunch.  I’ve upgraded to sweats, but to him, they’re pajamas.      

Mid-afternoon…  Feeling claustrophobic, I move to the dining room table.  Hopefully I’m nearing my five pages.  I have the Internet opened in the background.  At this point my husband comes downstairs for an afternoon snack and things get dicey…    

What my husband sees:  He congratulates me on getting out of bed and getting to work.  (I fume.  I’m distracted, but I try not to eat.  I can no longer write.)    

End of the day…  I’ve jumped back on the computer to note what I want to remember in the morning, and yes, I check one last time to see what everyone is doing on Facebook.  Ten minutes might turn into an hour.    

What my husband sees:  I’m on the bed in the spare bedroom when he comes in to kiss me goodnight.  Sometimes I fall asleep there.     

By now, even I can see what my husband sees.            

The question is—what am I going to do about it?  ~ JD here