Getting words on the page

In the last several weeks I realized something about how I write: I have to be sitting at the table with my pen and notebook before writing-related thoughts will take any kind of shape. I can’t plot in the shower or work on dialogue on the treadmill. I can’t even think about my characters while folding laundry! If I try to do writing-related tasks while doing anything else all I can come up with is one thought on a loop, just going round and round in my head. Yet when I sit down, open my notebook, and re-read the last couple of paragraphs words start flowing, characters start doing things, the story starts moving along. Inconvenient, isn’t it? Tell me about it…. So I’m having to do this writing thing the hard way – no multi-tasking, just straight work at the table.
Is this because my brain is still new to the whole “write while not writing” thing? Or is it simply wired that way, forcing me to concentrate on being creative and not spend the precious energy on other things? I don’t know. I know one thing, I’m getting a door hanger that says Do Not Disturb and putting it to good use.

“Death was last seen in the auction room, looking worried.”

Most people there didn’t know it was Death, of course. To them he looked like a painfully thin and pale man with a day-old stubble and a bow-tie. He almost ran through the room as it was filling up, looking around as if searching for something or trying to get his bearings. If anybody asked for his name he would’ve told them it was Vince.
But it was Death alright, and he was definitely stressed. Wouldn’t you be if you were Death and your sickle was missing? He only vaguely remembered what happened last night after his usual Saturday poker game with the other Horsemen. He lost some and won some, then they went out for drinks and maybe he’d had too many. Next thing he knew, he woke up in the closet of the auction house and couldn’t for the life of him figure out how he got there. The lost hours alone would’ve been bad enough, but the sickle… This was worse than when Pestilence got them all sick with her proprietary formula of maladies (Beta testing, she called it), worse even than when Hunger sent them all on a binge just for kicks and they about destroyed the planet. The boss wasn’t pleased then, Death couldn’t even imagine the wrath when the news spread. And spread it will, if it hasn’t already. He wondered if it was Sunday or if he’d been out longer than a day.
Suddenly he heard a voice from the next room, talking so quickly it was a miracle a human ear could understand what the voice was saying. Some vase was being offered, the auctioneer promising three wishes for a ridiculous starting price.
“What kind of auction is this?” Death wondered, an unpleasant feeling spreading through his already cold limbs.
“Going once… Going twice… Sold to the gentleman in a satyr sweater!”
Death cracked the door to the auction room and peeked through the narrow opening. The winning bidder did has a sweater with a picture of a satyr on it, and curiously enough he himself looked a lot like the horned woodland god, with his hair sticking up and his beard bearing a striking resemblance to that of a goat.
In the few seconds of quiet a new lot appeared on the stage and the auctioneer started up again:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have something truly remarkable to offer you today.” His eyes glinted with excitement as he said this and Death couldn’t help but pay attention. “This lot is not in the program because we only acquired it yesterday, but it is a marvelous addition to today’s auction. I give you…” he caused for effect, “Death’s sickle!”
In the small office behind the auction room Death fainted.