Waiting

I am waiting, not patiently, for a call back from the vet. I have a sick cat and I feel like my whole day is on hold. Granted, I did my morning pages and I finished some correspondence, and here I am blogging away when I would like to be slogging away at my creative work. I do not work well anywhere but home, so sitting in someone else's house, (I am house sitting and usually go to my own place to work.) waiting, makes me restless and frustrated. I hear about writers who travel to write in exotic or secluded retreats, but that does not work for me. I want my desk, my own computer, my notebooks close at hand. Maybe I need to do more of what Natalie Goldberg suggests in Writing Down the Bones and work in coffee shops, or in the park. I've tried that, but I get distracted watching people, wondering what's going on at home, day dreaming, anything but productive work. 

Well, the vet still has not called and it's almost time for lunch. The cat's holding up fairly well, but I know this will be another lost day. I made myself take yesterday off and I pretty much hated it, kept thinking, ah, tomorrow I can write. And now look at this, no work, not a line worth keeping. I'll try to be more flexible, but I doubt it will work. After all, with the morning pages I've dumped all the dross and now I'm ready for something really good to pop up. I feel like Eeyore, oh, my, nothing works today.