If not now...when? Excuses for not writing.

On most Tuesdays, I have a little time to myself while Noah is at co-op. The luxury of 3 and a half kid-free hours is truly treasured. However, I must fill that time with something I deem 'productive.' Not running errands or cleaning the house or napping. No no no. I decided that I have to spend that time writing and/or reading. Not on the computer. Blog posts just don't count. I see this time as personal enrichment hours.
But there is never an ideal situation. There aren't any cafes nearby to write in. I can't go home and be reminded of the millions of other things that I should be doing, and have the cats jumping on my lap. So I sit in the grocery store cafe and argue with myself over why I should even write in the first place. After all, everything's already been said much more eloquently by someone else. And, oh yeah, I suck. By the time I finish going through my lists of insecurities and oppressions, I have a short window of time to focus on Writing. And by then, I'm hungry. Or I have to pee.
Sigh.

Excuses for not Writing (with a capital W) today:

1) Location. I am sitting in a grocery store. It's a nice enough store. I'm on the second floor overlooking the floral department and cafe. I'm surrounded by employees munching their quick lunch breaks. Chewing abounds. Carts are chug-a-lugging. Moms and babies goo goo gaga-ing. Renewing. Baptizing themselves in the flourescently lit consumerist river. Filling baskets with Thanksgiving dinner ingredients. Eyes full of hope, dread, panic, weariness.

2) Grocery store music. Just loud enough to distract. Sappy enough to sicken. Old enough to evoke associations which lead to memories. Catchy. I find myself unwittingly singing, "Oooh...aahhh...I want to be with you everyway...." and  "If you don't know me by now...you will never never never know me...ooh...ooh..."

3) Entitlement. Damn you, Virginia Woolf. I love you, honey, but should I be convinced that I need a room of my own to sit and Write (capital W again) in? If women wait for that to happen, we will go on waiting til the cows come home. And no cows are ever coming home to me. (I don't really know what that expression means.) Yes, if you want to be a Writer, a professional writer, you need time, space. But we can't all be Woolf, we can't all have wealthy aunts who give us that 600 pounds so that we can indulge in our 'art'. I'm not bitter.
My room is like a coffin full of cat fur. Nothing alive and vibrant gets written there.
So, here I sit in a grocery store. I can have a creme brulee coffee and a chocolate chip muffin for 2 bucks. A table and chair of my own overlooking bright flowers with plenty of folks to spy on.

If I want to write, I should just tell myself to shut up and write. Right?

After much deliberation, I got around to wrting a few ideas for stories/poems down. At least it's something.