Morning. A wet nose in my face, several small licks. Miss B doesn’t care that it’s an hour early, she cares that my nifty sunrise alarm clock has started glowing, and that means it’s time to play oh Mum I missed you sleeping all night what are we doing now so much fun fun fun!
She’s a morning dog. I don’t even know.
Odd Trundles is more my speed in the morning–his little bulldog face is always squinched-up when he wakes, and he yawns and smacks his lips while ambling for the back door, usually underfoot, with Miss B crowding both of us to get going, get going, she has a schedule, dammit!
From there it’s the usual morning rodeo–getting the kids up, making sure lunches are made, stealing time to sit and stare at yesterday’s wordcount, sinking back into the story. The push for the end of the book has begun, that itchy time when the story is under my skin and struggling to get out, and everything that isn’t writing is a distraction at best, to be dealt with effectively so I can rip these spiky things from under my skin. Get them OUT so I can think again.
I like the race to the finish, the lunge for the end. Even if it’s sometimes uncomfortable, there’s something about all engines go and all weight brought to bear that is oddly soothing. I’ve set up the dominoes, now all I have to do is touch and everything will fall where it must.
But first, I’ve to get the kids to school and run with Miss B. Take care of the physical so the story can have a clear strong channel to come through.
Over and out.