Light at the End of a Tunnel

This is a semi-autobiographical sketch of reality in 475 words. Thanks.

"Oh goodness!" mused Anand in annoyance at his writing desk, "Why is the mobile vibrating again? Can't a man have peace even at 7 am in the morning?"
Anand loved to write fiction for children. One short story every week was his motto. And he was a methodical writer who believed in consistency.
After much deliberation, he had kept Sunday reserved for his special writing day. On this day, he wanted to just write on and on and on…
Because weekdays were a dreary wasteland for him as far as writing was concerned. Being a freelance programmer has its price. Customers had to come first. They paid for his daily bread. Even one hour of daily writing was good for him on these bleak days.
A question may arise, 'What about the Saturday?'
Yes, that's a valid question.
And it demands a valid answer as well.
Saturday was the review day.
This was the grand day when he read through all he had written over the past five days. This enabled him to judge, "Do I have a workable draft of a short story yet, a draft that I can polish tomorrow to sparkling perfection?" At times, the answer was yes, and he marvelled at his own genius. But the majority of the time, he groaned, "How could I have written such junk?"
But then junk is the expected product when you treat your writing as a second priority from Monday to Friday and sandwich it in between video calls with your customers. There is no continuity or consistency. Result? Junk.
So, it all boiled down to just one day in a week.
Sunday was his beloved writing day.
Sunday was his salvation day.
Sunday was his redemption day.
On this day, he just wrote on and on.
Alas! That was in theory.
In reality, an unseen force seemed to take a bet as to how many times Anand would be interrupted on this day.
How many times would WhatsApp messages from irate customers, struck at some software glitch, wreck his mental peace?
How many times would the mobile buzz in vibration mode? Among those calls, how many would be from his girlfriend (or, even worse, girlfriend's mom)?
How many times would the doorbell ring as the Cable TV operator and others of his ilk wanted to collect his subscription only on Sundays?
And how many times would his stomach growl, sending him to the kitchen more often than not?
Most of the time, that unseen force would win its bet with a comfortable majority. Anand's beloved Sunday would be transmuted to a frustrating day by nightfall.
Yes, writing for a full day is a hard business indeed.
But Anand was ever hopeful.
Someday, his dream would be realised.
On that day, his writing will go on…and on…and on…
Yes, that day will come.
***