What stops a writer from writing on weekends.

I sit at my computer, with a scene in mind--completely acted out like a movie, ready to go. As I begin to type it in, my daughter charges up the stairs and wants to know if she can go visit the neighborhood cat. This animal hangs out on our street and is fed by at least three families, so she is as fat and sleek as a pet pig. Yes, please, go visit the cat, but don't plague the neighbors while you're out.

Then my husband wants me to know he's heading for the gym. Then the phone rings and it's my 90-year-old mother in Oregon.  After we hang up, I remember I have dishes in the drainer and more to wash, plus emptying the dishwasher of the things in there.

The scene continues to run through my mind as I sort out all the dishes and wipe down counters. But I see the plant from the nursery, sitting in its plastic pot, right next to the clay pot I need to put it into (all right, into which I need to put it). Now my scene is fading rapidly.

This is probably the story of nearly every day of my life, but on weekends it seems like the traffic up and down the stairs, through my brain, over the kitchen counters and out the back door increases to Grand Central Station. I am constantly distracted. I finally have to run upstairs and type in a few lines to remind me where I'm going with this scene, then run back down to join my daughter visiting the cat.