Crack that whip.

It doesn't take much to get me out of bed in the morning:

1. Peanut butter on Pepperidge Farm raisin toast.

2. Sunny weather with mild temperatures and low humidity.

3. The ability to slide right into my skinny jeans more easily than the week before.

4. Ballet flats.

5. Robert Pattinson.

6. Voting in a historical and exciting presidential election.

Some mornings are better than others, however. There are days I wake up, as if ready to run a marathon - prepared to conquer the world, one step at a time.

And then there are days where I'd rather stumble through a walk around the block, begrudging each step that takes me back to my living room couch. And when I arrive, I toss myself onto the tattered, old couch like the slug that I am.

It's all about motivation. I am feeling it, people. The tug is driving me crazy. When I'm at work, I'd rather be at home writing. When I'm at home, I'd rather be writing than doing anything else. This is going on to the almost distraction of everything else in my life (except Dr. X, Daughter X and Robert Pattinson, of course).

Ask any working mother if she feels pulled in too many directions and she won't tell you "yes." She'll just stare you down and try hard not to spew curse words at you in response to such an obvious question. Would I like a few more hours in my day? Would I like my damn cat to stop snoring, puking and eating Daughter X's pretend-princess wand (and then start puking again)? Do I have to answer that question? Duh.

I've been burning the midnight oil a lot lately. Turning on more cartoons and cooking even less gourmand than usual. More macaroni and peas, less osco bucco. And, funny, the maid stopped coming by which means the house is a bit disorganized and dusty. Oh, wait - the maid is me. Yeah, the bathroom is definitely not getting cleaned this week (I have chapter two to finish).

I guess I'm saying that I'm making headway on My Great American Novel. I'm cracking the whip on my prose, just not on the other parts of my life. I'm tired and cranky, and Daughter X is wondering what happened to her mother, but I'm writing. I don't even know if it's good, but I've got a prologue and two chapters to show for my indifference to my family, friends and professional commitments.

If I can sell as many books someday as the number of dirty pieces of clothing currently stacked up in my washroom, I'll be doing pretty good. OK, time to get back to writing - er, laundry.