Everyone Is Home
Chaos is so much my accepted operating procedure that I apparently don’t know what to do with myself when the chaos level declines. Case in point, this last weekend, where I had a whole day and a half to myself.
I didn’t know what to do with myself without kids to run after or a house to clean. *boggles* Who’d'a thunk it?
I am caught in a peculiar middle space where I don’t want to be working on revising a book, I want to be writing the new one, but I can’t bloody well settle down to write the new one with a deadline hanging over my head. Thoughts? Anyone?
Bueller?
IN other news, I’ve found out why the asters at the foot of the driveway are always crawling with bees. Because, you see, there’s a hive nearby. In the truck.
Lovely. Fortunately I have an agreement with bees. They don’t sting me. I used to work hives with a friend of mine. He’d be all kitted up in his beekeeper’s outfit and would get stung two or three times each time. I would be in shorts, a tank top, and sandals, and the little beauties wouldn’t sting me. Maybe it’s pheromones. I’ve heard some people don’t get stung, for some reason.
Hmmmm.
Well, I suppose I’ve done enough messing about for today. I should get the revisions done. I’ll set a timer. I swear a kitchen timer is a writer’s best friend. Right next to morning pages it’s the most wonderful tool for a writer imaginable. You set the timer and all of a sudden pressure disappears. Someone else is keeping track, and rare is the day when a writer can’t set aside at least twenty minutes, or ten, a few times a day to get back into the swing of things.
All right. See how I’m procrastinating? I need Miss Piggy to wallop me back into working.
Books don’t write themselves, you know. Well, some of them do. But not really.
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