Writing with Spiderman

I am writing this blog post sort of one-handed. No, I didn't break an arm, but I have a squirmy two-year-old in Spiderman pjs on my lap. He is babbling on about "Loola"--the dog next door (whose actual name is Lily, but don't tell Baby #4 that).

And I write anyway.

A long time ago--about four kids ago--I gave up the myth that I needed certain things in order to be able to create. Quiet. Long stretches of solitude. Coffee (gave it up for geen tea). My desk in a certain order. My lucky bathrobe. Candles burning. Two hands.

Believe me, I sometimes fantasize--not about my not-so-secret infatuation, Anthony Bourdain, but about a quiet retreat, a mountain cabin or a beach cottage, all by myself, where I can write.

But I realized, a long time ago, that writers simply write. The ones who produce write when they are sick, when they are inspired, when they are not inspired. When they have only one hand and Spiderman on their lap.

So how about you? What illusion about what you need have you given up--and write anyway?

Peace,

E