I wish I could write more...

I read about these old pulp fiction writers from back in the day like, Walter B. Gibson who could crank out a compelling novel in four days!

Four days!

He would have to rest awhile after finishing because his fingers cracked and bled.

Thinking about my favorite writers, I wonder how happy they really were in their personal lives? It can't be fun to be in a relationship with someone that lives behind a closed door and can't be disturbed while trying to create and beat the deadline.

Cornell Woolrich and H.P. Lovecraft never seemed to leave their rooms even between writing.

Yet, Walter B. Gibson loved being around people and made the time!

I have no excuse for not cranking out a novel a day, for I have few friends to disturb me. No one ever calls me. And I'm overflowing with ideas.

Thoughts in the back of my mind put these hurdles and obstacles in front of me, that fool me into thinking; I need absolute quiet, I need a cabin in the woods, I need no distractions...

On and on, around in my head until I'm tired, too tired to write and then depressed because I haven't.