I wrote my first novel in college. I thought I was busy then, you know, between sleep, beer, and the occasional class.
I thought life would be so much easier after work began. When there was no more homework.
I was so stupid.
I work more now than I ever did in college, and my writing time competes with the few hours of sleep I need to live, to say nothing of dishes or dusting or laundry and the myriad of things I'm supposed to do as a housewife.
I remember hearing somewhere that JK Rowling said she finished her last Harry Potter books so quickly because she didn't clean her house for a year (*snort* like she doesn't have maids in the castle!). That's a daily reality for me, though. I get home at five, cook supper, eat, talk to my husband, get ready for my paying job the next day....and then I've got maybe an hour in which to choose: wash the dishes, watch TV, take a shower, or write. The time crunch has literally meant that some days I have to chose between hygiene and creativity.
And some nights, I smell.
When bathing is a luxury, when you're willing to eat out of Tupperware because the bowls are dirty....maybe that's the definition of a writer.