“When? Where? How?” Margaret Atwood Considers the Burning Questions of the Writing Life ‹ Literary Hub

MONDAY: My daughter drives us back to Toronto from the small house in the snowy woods acquired, in part, for writing. But we hadn't done any writing. Instead, we'd colored in the white spots on the walls left by the previous owner's pictures, using aquarelle crayons. We'd filled the bird feeders, then watched the winter birds- chickadees, nuthatches, hairy woodpeckers, goldfinches-a soporific activity that causes you to drool if you overindulge. We'd gone for a snowshoe, she striding along, me puffing. I did write a dozen long-overdue snail-mail notes. I'd also obsessed about: (1) the editing of the novel that will come out in the fall; (2) my piece on birdwatching; (3) other procrastinations. Obsession is the better part of valor.