Gretta Garbo had it right. When you're alone, you can do whatever you want, and if you get nothing done for the day you have no one to blame but yourself.
Yesterday my 81 year old mother decided it was time to make a complete pest of herself -- the "Can I borrow you for 5 minutes?" kind of crap that extends to hours and destroys whatever line you were following in your writing. Then my brother, who's an alcoholic but usually keeps to his room to watch the History Channel, got into a chatty mood after he got home from work and would not leave me alone, no matter how many times I asked him to. He went away once he'd finished slurping two more beers and taken three cigarette breaks in his chat.
I finally got a little writing done, late last night, by shifting to a totally different part of the story and just jumping in...but after 1200 or so words, I went blank. And this morning I woke with a headache and a mood so sour, I couldn't talk to anyone till a few minutes ago.
Now I know why writers drink; it's the only way they can legally drown their loved ones.
Forcing myself to a positive note -- I'm at 17,777 words spread over 79 pages and caught a glimmer of the parallels between Brendan's lives in Derry and Houston. I'm still moving forward...hell, clawing my way through the mine fields Brendan seems so adroit at dancing past.