Writing ADD and what I'm working on

That's attention deficit disorder, not just random capitalization. But I do think I have writing ADD. I have a tough time finishing things. And it's not because I think whatever project I 'm writing isn't good. It's just that something else in my head grabs hold of my attention and chokes it to the ground. For example, I have two pieces that I have started but sort of abandoned in favor of something that sprung into my head the other morning.

I wrote on it the other day and then again last night and we are around the 2,500 word mark right now. The words are still coming easy, and that may be why it's what I am wanting to write at the moment.

Here's a little taste of what I've been doing.

I push him off of me and he stumbles out to the middle of the circle. He struggles to stand and I come at him with a flurry of punches. First a right, then a left, then another right. I throw one more hard left and Berger’s head snaps back. He falls to the ground and the crowd starts to shout. A pair of men fight through the mob and grab Berger under the arms and drag him into a back room. I follow them, accepting congratulations.

Once the door shuts behind us one of the men who had been dragging Berger waves smelling salts under his nose. He shakes his head and his eyes blink open.

Raul stands up from the desk that’s in the corner. He approaches Berger and me with two stacks of cash, Berger’s bigger than mine since he took the fall.

“Sorry it can’t be more, boys,” he tells us.

“It’s alright,” I say, speaking for the both of us. “It pays the bills.”

And it does. That’s why I do this, not because I want to, but because I need to.

I sit with Berger for a few minutes after Raul has left. He’s given me the keys and asked me to lock up. We are in the basement below his store, a shop that sells a little of everything but specializes in nothing.

“Sorry that one was so rough,” I say to Berger as he pushes himself off of his back and onto his elbows. “I think I got carried away.”

Berger just smiles and tells me not to worry about it. “I’ve taken worse beatings,” he says. “At least I am getting paid for it now.”

I nod and agree. At least we are getting paid for it.