And There It Went

(Warning: Ranting ahead that will make you fear for my sanity.)

Inspiration is a fragile thing. Sometimes it just won't come; sometimes I finally grasp it only for my mood to shred it. Usually that will happen if I'm depressed by a lack of reviews or some such thing; however, there's a bigger emotional threat to my inspiration.

Few things will ruin my mood more than being interrupted.

I'm OCD enough about finishing things normally. I'll be biting back growls if a friend visits me in the middle of my doing a homework assignment, even if I could use a break and really like talking to her, just because I want to get things finished.

That, however, pales in comparison to how I feel when I'm interrupted in writing.

I have a tendency to stare at a computer without inspiration for a while in the name of discipline, and then, once I find something, I go after it like a maniac. And that's usually when my mother decides I need to rub her back, my father decides I need to rub the calcium deposit on his foot, the dryer goes off, Dad wants me to take out the trash, empty the dishwasher, sweep the floor, or do something totally non-urgent that in his philosophy always has to be done right this moment. All while expressing extreme disapproval at my slacking around all day beforehand. And by the time I've done my errands, suddenly an hour of my writing time is gone, something else to attend to is going on, and I'm so ticked off I'm no longer feeling any inspiration for anything (except possibly ways to orphan myself in a story), which in turn makes me more ticked off.

And the worst part is, that's just how life is. No one's going to just let me lock myself in my room all day and try to write. There are always things to be done and, frankly, if I don't do them immediately I'll probably forget about them. Everything's justified; I'm just whiny.

Any advice? Any similar issues in your creative life?