“It’s Wednesday,” I told myself yesterday. “You don’t have to run, you don’t have to stream. All you have to do is write. Hey, you can even get ahead on the two paying projects, right?”
I agreed with myself. I felt very wise and motivated. And then…
…I wrote 6k on the werewolf erotica I’ll probably never publish. *headdesk*
I’m not mad, though. Apparently I just needed to crawl into a story and not come out for a while. No stakes, no real danger, just me and some super-dumb characters doing weird things while rain swept the roof and the dogs power-napped. They were exhausted by all the water falling from the sky, I guess.
And it was lovely. My wrists hurt a little, but that’s to be expected. Ice and stretching all day, and I honestly intend to get back to paying work. I mean, it can’t always be werewolf pr0n. I do have a combat scene in Hell’s Acre to get onto (pretty sure Avery’s going to try a fancy knife-drop-catch thing before someone special shows up to save his bacon, and I need that blocked out to a fare-thee-well before writing) and I’ve got to get the pair of monster hunters caught by the big monster-hunting organization before too much longer, since I pretty much know the turn in the second Sons of Ymre book now. There’s no shortage of work.
I just hope I won’t be seduced into the werewolf story again. I know how it ends, but there’s another 70-80k to get there and the damn thing is already in the neighborhood of 86k. It’s just so…big.
Anyway, the world is still on fire, though a nasty bully seems to be getting some kind of comeuppance. Of course it’s hurting his victims at home more than it’s hurting him at this point, and the body count will only rise before he’s levered out of power, and plenty of his coevals and henchmen will probably escape scot-free…but at least it’s something, I guess.
I put a dollop of bacon grease in the dogs’ kibble bowls this morning. Boxnoggin turned up his nose, but Miss B dug in her bowl until she found the prize, then proceeded to casually stroll over to Boxnoggin’s bowl and do the same. She did get plenty of kibble with it–I’m no fool, I mashed it all together for just this occasion–and it will keep her coat nice and shiny. And Boxnoggin will have nobody to blame but himself when he condescends to finally put his nose in his brekkie-bowl and discovers there was once bacon grease, but now there is none. He will make a huge production over it, I’m sure, and will beg extra hard for toast scraps from my own breakfast and/or lunch.
I’m trying not to look at the news more than a few times per day. Doomscrolling isn’t good for anyone, and each nadir I reach when the world bursts into fresh flame is a little lower than the last. Endurance is my specialty, but this is fucking ridiculous. Even the absurdity isn’t helping.
In any case, I should get the morning’s toast choked down and the dogs walked. It looks like a reasonably un-cloudy day, which I hate, and I will have to get my morning run out of the way before the sun rises too high. Otherwise there will be people all over the sidewalk, emerging blinking from their holes into bright sunlight, and who needs that? Not a curmudgeon like me, certainly. I’d wish for more rain, but even my gloomy self understands saturated earth needs a moment or two to rest and let some runoff happen. I’ll settle for being cranky until I get back home and shut my door on the outside world.
Maybe I’ll give myself a little bit of werewolf writing after dinner today. As a treat, you understand. I definitely won’t spend another day head-down in something that’ll never sell. Honestly.
Yup. Sure. Imagine me staring into the camera, The Office-style. Best-laid plans, and all that.
See you around, beloveds.