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ESPN just ran a "Breaking News" segment on Tom Brady. The announcer was breathless in replaying a phone conversation Tom had with a Canadian radio station. Tom gave all the blah-blah a New England Patriot is trained to deliver, high word count but no content. Any public statement from the injured quarterback earns a flashing banner on Sports Center, even when he says nothing. And if Tom appeared in public with a limp or knee brace, all of Patriot nation will go weak-kneed.

Here's the thing about writing. There's no breaking news when we work through our injuries. No one watches what we do or wonders how our work is progressing. No one cares if we've broken a shoulder or endured a sinus infection or (like one of my dear friends) have cancer.

Tom Brady is larger than life. Writers are nine-point font, words on the page, maybe a catchy cover and a flash on a website. We want it like this, don't we? Readers should enjoy our books, not worry about the sweat and suffering it took to get there.

Sports are like that. We see the skill, not the effort. Randy Moss doesn't run, he glides. LeBron James doesn't shove into the paint, he exerts his will. Nastia Liukin doesn't work the bars, she soars. Ryan Howard doesn't hack, he powers the ball out of the park.

Mastering a sport requires repetition. Wikipedia says that "Pistol Pete" Maravich's father made him make 100 free throws before being allowed to go to bed at night. (Don't try this at home with your kids.)  Fastpitch softball pitchers have to throw daily and understand it may take a year to pound out a real strike. Wide receivers run routes over and over until their quarterbacks could find them in a blizzard. A point guard orchestrating a great offense is a product of practice, not spontaneity.

Repetition becomes skill, and skill becomes excellence.

I want to exert my will every time I sit at the computer. But the process is one stutter-step after another, throwing up bricks, stumbling into fouls, tripping out-of-bounds.

Which it's why it is so much easier to do the laundry. Walk the dog. Send an email. Dust the furniture. Change a light bulb. Shovel the deck. Sit at the computer and wait a minute...the cat's pacing in the hall. She wants to go out. Whoa, it's sunny and twenty degrees and maybe I need another walk to clear my head. Now the cat's at the other door, wanting to come in.

Procrastination is the bane of writing.

We don't have Pat Summit barking in our ears or Rajon Rondo orchestrating our journeys. We don't have the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders shaking their pom-poms when we finish a chapter. Every time I gain momentum, a diversion with a Justin-Tuck force knocks me off course.

Editors are angels of mercy but they remain on high. The deadline is judgment day, waiting to reveal that we couldn't play in the big leagues after all. It's a miracle when a book emerges from all any of this.

When it does, somehow all is forgiven. For a moment or two, we glide and soar.

And then it's time to start the next book. Blank page...hm...yawn...maybe after the nap...

Kathy Mackel, Boost, Dial, Penguin Books