If I wanted to keep writing, I had to learn to do it like Gil did, which was kind of like the way the post office pledge to deliver mail: in spite of any prohibitive conditions, distractions, theoretical constraints. Forget about waiting for the quite moment alone in the pristine room: I was never going to get that again, at least not for a long time. And so rather than stealing writing time in my office, I moved my laptop to the living room. Instead of writing late at night or early morning before my child woke. I started doing it while she was right there. I wrote while I watched the 802 viewing of Cinderella, while friends visited for coffee, while I bantered with my husband. And somewhere in there, the pages mounted up.