a.m. Up way too early again. Ugh. Would love to roll over and go
back to sleep, but there's music playing in my head- Lady GaGa of
all things. Once I'm hearing music, there's no going back to sleep.
At least it's not that danged "give me back that filet-o-fish"
a.m. Cats fed, tea made, computer taking forever to load. Put emphatic
checkmark next to "buy new desktop" on to-do list. Yeah,
like that hasn't been on the list for the past three months
but every time I try to computer shop, I vapor lock when faced with
Too Many Choices. Okay, computer's running. It's early enough that
the internal editor should still be asleep, which means I'll skip
the email-and-internet time suck and go straight to the story. Let
the writing begin!
a.m. The unhusband grunts something that might've been "good
morning" on the way to use the bathroom off my office. Seriously?
He had to walk past two other bathrooms to get to mine. And I love
him dearly, but morning guy noises = not very romantic. Continue
writing but switch from love scene to a running-and-screaming scene,
as it's unlikely that I'll be able to recapture the sexy vibe until
he's dug into his own work for the day.
a.m. Go online to search for details on ballistic missiles. Wonder
whether, somewhere out there, a CIA analyst just sat up, then slumped
back down, shook her head, and said, "Nope. Just that author
a.m. Smack self in forehead as I remember that my Grampie used to
design missile guidance systems-if he doesn't know the answer, he'll
know who does. Email him at the retirement home-his addy is the
tail number off his old stunt plane-and hope I'm half as cool as
he is when I'm ninety.
p.m. Noon already? (Count Diet Coke cans.) Yep, must be lunchtime.
Writing has gone well, but I'm slowing down. Probably time to switch
gears. Grab food and head out to do some horse chores (blessings
on the unhusband for doing the morning feed-and-turnout). I know
the brain will keep working on the story while the body does other
p.m. Still not really ready to get back into the story (and I've
already been up for almost twelve hours). Decide to do some promo
stuff and answer fan mail.
p.m. Afternoon farm chores-and yes, I know I should be back to writing,
but there's something still not quite worked out in the subconscious.
I'm not sure if I've taken a wrong turn, if I'm about to take a
wrong turn, or if I'm just being lazy. Hard to tell some days.
p.m. Start dinner. Somewhere between putting pasta water on to boil
and starting veggies on stove, I figure out what's been bugging
the subconscious, drop everything, and dash to the computer to get
it down before I lose the words.
p.m. Smell burning veggies and bolt back to kitchen just as smoke
alarm goes off and pets scatter.
p.m. Start over with the veggies, this time remembering to set the
loud, annoying "capable of getting through to zoned-out author"
p.m. The unhusband emerges from his work lair in post-work grizzly
mode. Feed unhusband. Write excellent fight scene while unhusband
does evening chores, with Bones playing on TNT. I've seen the episode
(I've seen 'em all), but it's a pleasant background.
p.m. Unhusband returns, mellowed by calories and physical activity.
Engage in good-natured wrangle over American Idol versus Nazi documentary,
compromise on rerun of Law and Order: SVU.
p.m. Getting. Sleepy.
p.m. Go to bed.
p.m. Oh, crap. Not the filet-o-fish song!