It's three quarters of the way through February and I'm less than half the way through my writings for it. I haven't had the time, meaning I haven't had the motivation to write much. I'm struggling to manage it now that I'm back working full-time.

I still want to write, but mostly when I'm not writing. I have ideas and topics I want to write about but I have trouble turning them into ideas and topics I've written about.

I write somedays, as I am now, at lunch out of necessity. I'm in the company lunch room. My white page, framed by a gray table, slowly fills. A ping pong ball taps away down the hallway while the sounds of our support department's technical laden discussions flow over the cubicle wall beside me. The gray rainy day's hung on the wall in front of me.

This isn't what I want, sitting in a stale lunchroom rushing to fill a few pages before people start to wonder if I'm taking executive length lunches. I should be sitting at a beaten yet solid table, about the height of a desk. It's a large table and shows the wrinkles and laugh lines earned through years of companionship. My dull red leather chair's comforting and supporting. The room's small but not crammed. There's a wall with bookshelves filled with dictionaries, thesaurus's, rhyming dictionaries, and novels.

The large window to my left allows me to daydream without distracting me when I'm in a groove. The floor's old hardwood is covered in the center by an area rug. There's a small couch and coffee table to relax and read research material or proof-read. My filled notebooks line one shelf on the wall, held up by a stack of a dozen or so fresh ones waiting their turn.

The room is dimly lit with a few candles along with a bright desk lamp lighting the path of my pen. A cup on my desk in front of me is stuffed with pens and pencils, including more than a dozen of my favourite writing pen. Steam rises from the hot coffee to my left. Soft classical music is barely audible, coming from a small radio on the bookshelf. I can't listen to music with lyrics while writing.

I write until my coffee's finished. I flip through my racing mind as I head downstairs for a refill. Mentally, I'm deep in a flow, making it difficult to manage the stairs and the pouring of coffee. I check on the dog lounging by the fire and head back upstairs.

I write until that second coffee's done and then write some more. I write until my thumb and forefinger stop cooperating. I put the pen down and stare out the window, stretch a little and then begin to write some more. I could fill a library with my notebooks if this place existed. That's my excuse, that's my dream.