It never fails.

I sit down with the determination to write. My children haven’t bothered me all evening, the upstairs is quiet, all is ready.

Then I open my laptop. That’s when everyone comes calling almost at once. They have to comment on whatever noise I have on in the background. They want to have a conversation about it. They want to bother me about stuff that might happen three weeks from now. They want to sit on the arm of my chair while I write or sit on the floor at the foot of my chair and rock back and forth, hitting my chair as they do so.

On top of it all? Three of the biggest horse flies I have ever seen in my life are at work inside the blinds to my immediate left. They hide inside the blinds when I roll them up or refuse to stay still long enough for me to strike them, striking the window with an audible pop each time their giant jelly bean-sized bodies hit the glass.

Now I can no longer think about writing. All I can think about are the cigarettes sitting in my truck outside, the bottle of Maker’s Mark I emptied the other night, and pulling out my hair as I avoid a nervous breakdown in front of my children.