Evening is approaching. Toys litter the floor. Baskets of laundry outline the hallway. Dishes from lunch—and breakfast—are piled in the sink. I hear a key turn the lock of our front door and let out a sigh of relief. My husband is home. He smiles at me from across the room and says, "I'll see you in fifteen." That's my cue. I quickly escape to our bedroom for my fifteen minutes of creative freedom.

I do not have a particular place to perch. Sometimes I edit in front of the computer or write in Nana's old reading chair. Most of the time I merely sprawl out across the bed. This is my time to write—and I can do it anywhere. In fact, while watching a movie I can even manage to use a skill my children have mastered—I call it "tune out." There I sit on the couch, remote in one hand, pencil in the other. I suppose this is what makes me a Mom—the ability to accomplish my goal under the strangest of circumstances. For now, however, I'm thoughtfully secluded in my sanctuary. I immerse myself in the story I have rewritten for the tenth time.

I hear my son knocking on the door. "Mom, I need to talk to you."

I realize thirty minutes have already gone by.

Smiling to myself I think, One day my house will be quiet and I'll be able to write constantly without any interruptions. Then I laugh. That's the day I'll experience writer's block.