I get irritated by them: those things I have to do when I would rather be writing. Yesterday it was shopping for home improvement items. In the north woods, where we live, buying large ticket items means a one-hour drive to a town that has stores in it. Yes, I get to eat at the Chinese restaurant (we don't have one of those, either), but it is a wasted day...well, except for the new refrigerator, freezer, bathroom remodeling stuff and five t-shirts I found on sale in a rainbow of colors.
What I mean is, I didn't write a word on my WIP. So it should be chalked up as a wasted work day, right?
Wrong. On the way home, I'm half dozing, half watching the scenery go by (Don't be scared; I was NOT driving.) And suddenly the solution to a plot problem that had been bothering me for a week just appeared in my head. It was exactly like a knot had untied itself and let me go on with my story.
So maybe the stuff of life is there by design. Maybe the brain--at least, my brain--works better when it's on auto-pilot, when the conscious layer is distracted by toilets and energy-saver rebates.