If ideas were colors, you would see their orange and red ribbons slipping out of the quarter inch of air between my car's window and door frame-- you know that tiny bit you let down -- not big enough for an arm, but large enough to keep the car from turning into the July sun.
I think in the car. I have the most amazing ideas that evaporate the moment I see my front porch and begin thinking about what's for supper, do the boys have homework, when will Mike be home... Those everyday concerns crowd out the turquoise blue of my next blog or the fiery fuchsia of a particularly witty line of dialogue for my WIP's main character.
The shower does it too, seawater green ideas that end up down the drain or leaving their marks on my towel as I step from the certainty that I will write them down into "Moooom! He's hitting me!" or "Honey, do you know where I left my shoes?"
But we've all got lives. And people are still writing, busy lives and all. I just hate the thought that I'm missing so much. Would that I could walk around like an old school novelist with a tape recorder in hand, saying things like "Note to self."
And then there's the stark white truth that I wouldn't trade one moment of searching for socks or helping with algebra as time dutifully trails away.