There is no work avoidance like that of a writer faced with writing a scene that compels her.

This scene has chased me for two weeks now. It’s there in my mind when I wake up in the morning. I play it and embellish it and feel my way into it when I’m working around the house or eating my meals. When I’m talking with someone, the scene steals away part of my attention. It follows me to bed at night. It shapes my dreams.

It’s a brutal, compelling, climactic scene. I love it. The emotions in it are raw. Here the protagonist finally faces the last thing he ever wanted to face, and he grows beyond his limitations. I know what the scene must do and how it must do it.

I could, I tell myself, sit down and write at least a first draft of this scene in a couple of hours.

Except that, apparently, I can’t.

In the last couple of weeks or so, I have cleaned and weeded the garden. I’ve hosted six house guests and done at least that many loads of laundry after the guests left. Heck, I even ironed some shirts! I’ve been to the Farmer’s Market, the supermarket, the Whole Foods market, the liquor-store-cum-gourmet market, and the produce market. And it’s not like I haven’t had time at my computer. On the contrary: I’ve sat at my computer for hours. I’ve edited another book I’m working on until it’s ever so much better than it was last month. I have proofread an entire book as a consultant. I’ve written a couple of blog posts, maintained an active presence on facebook, and kept up with all my email. I’ve taken, edited, organized, and posted numerous photographs. I’ve found and ordered cabinet parts, refrigerator parts, and books online. Let’s face it; I’ve done just about everything… except… write that one scene.

Really, I must sit down and do this.

Maybe right now.