Because I live in the mountains, I always think I’m going to sit down and write in peace.

Coffee, laptop, quiet mountain morning. That’s the plan. It’s always the plan, but it never works out that way. 

The dogs start the disruption and soon enough, the wild animals jump on board. Don’t get me wrong, I love every second of it all, but I wouldn’t say it makes writing easy! 

Allie and Sam don’t believe in space. If I’m sitting, they’re touching me. One leans into my leg like she’s trying to become part of the chair, and the other one decides my arm is where his head belongs. I try to type around him, which is exactly as effective as it sounds.

I like to write in the sun, so I’ll often sit on the back deck and write there. About the time I get settled, the bluebirds have already moved in for their attack.

They have a birdhouse with babies, and apparently, they don’t trust me. I can’t even walk near that side of the yard without one of them coming straight at me, dive-bombing me to leave their turf. I’ve started detouring around my own yard like I’m the one who doesn’t belong there.

The crows are my besties, though they do still fly off when I come out. They just wait a few seconds or stay close by to see what I’m doing. 

They get dog kibble every day, and now, if I’m late, they complain. Loud. They sit in the trees and carry on until I come outside. One of them landed on the railing the other day and just stayed there, staring at me through the window like I’d forgotten an appointment.

They’re not as judgy as the deer, though. They just show up and stand there. I’ll look up from my screen and suddenly there are three of them in the yard, watching. The dogs see them and freeze, and for a minute nobody moves. It’s just a staring contest until one of them decides it’s over. If I’m feeding the birds, they feel they deserve a bite too, but we aren’t supposed to feed them. They don’t care about the rules. 

The turkeys and squirrels are always fighting over something. I don’t know what started it and I don’t think it matters at this point. The squirrels run across everything like they own it, and the turkeys follow behind making noise about it. It goes on all day.

And I’m inside trying to write a quiet scene. It’s not quiet. It’s never quiet. But I guess that’s the point.

Because I’ll be in the middle of all of that, trying to focus, and something will catch my attention. The way something moves. The way something doesn’t feel right. And that’s where the story starts. Not when everything is calm, but right in the middle of the interruption.