Hemingway's way

From The Writer's Almanac~

Today marks the 115th birthday of Ernest Hemingway. He didn't start writing until his 26th birthday: two months later, he had a first draft. Years later, he told a friend: "Toward the last it was like a fever. Toward the last I was sprinting, like in a bicycle race, and I did not want to lose my speed making love or anything else." This novel, first titled Fiesta, was revised to The Lost Generation. 
We know it as The Sun Also Rises.

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I'm certainly no Hemingway, but I know a thing or two about writing, and so it came as no surprise to me while watching a PBS special last night to discover that reclusive writer J.D. Salinger routinely holed up in a bunker outside his home in New Hampshire to attend to his writing.
I know that Maya Angelou rented hotel rooms when she needed to get writing done.
The need for solitude without distraction is the very reason why the MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire exists, or why Hedgebrook in Washington state exists.
When I was at MacDowell, the gift of time and space allowed me to write eight to ten hours a day. Within twenty-four days, I had written (and revised) six short stories, four essays, and seven poems. I kept a detailed journal of my time there, too.
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Ask me how much I've gotten done since.

Missing MacDowell and the freedom to create

Here it is, Saturday morning, the third day of November, and I have written very little since returning from MacDowell, glorious MacDowell.
I have figured out the difference ~ and this was not difficult to theorize ~ but the difference between MacDowell and my home in Kansas City is all about responsibilities.
At MacDowell, I had long, long, long hours to fill, sitting at my laptop, or standing (which is frequently my preference), whereby my only responsibility was to write, and then show up for breakfast and dinner, 8 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., respectively. Lunch was a thunk on my porch that came to me: delicious soup and sandwiches, fruit, and dessert.
At MacDowell, I made my bed, but did not get distracted by laundry or dust on my dresser, or a dog that wanted me to throw a ball ... over and over ... over and over ... over and over.
I love my dogs, but they are a HUGE time suck. They want in, they want out, they want in, they want out, they want me to take them for a walk, they want me to fetch them a biscuit, they want to go "bye-bye," they want to be fed, they want new water, they want me to pet them, to play with them, to let them in, to let them out, to let them in, to let them out.
I can deal with letting housekeeping wait; I can deal with eating sandwiches from Price Chopper and apples and pears when I am hungry; I don't need to cook big meals anymore: the children are grown, it's just me and my husband, and he's fine with sandwiches from Price Chopper, or dinner from the All-You-Can-Eat salad bar there.
It's the dogs. Millie and Bella, so damned cute and so damned needy.
They are the primary reason I have written so very little since coming home. Well, also, there's work responsibilities: yesterday I subbed at Liberty High School and then went right away to help out a neighbor ~ get her children off the bus and into the house; prepare a snack.
But it's the dogs, and the constant attention they seem to need, that's been my Achilles heel now that I am home.
When Tuesday rolls around, I am taking Miss Millie to doggy daycare so I can get some writing done. Without Millie, Bella quiets down. She will sleep for me.
Well. It's a plan.
I need a plan. I have written only 1,070 words on my NaNoWriMo project; I am still not finished with my Bologna book ~and I have put myself on strict deadline to be DONE by December 31.
My short short story for contest needs half a day of attention (deadline Nov. 15). And I haven't begun to solicit literary journals for another five short stories.
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Anyone need an adorable cocker spaniel?