I really don’t have anything to bitch about.  I’m finally deep into this work-in-progress, the characters are getting human and quirky,  the plot’s clipping along, and I’m pretty sure the people who have taken an interest in it won’t be disappointed. But here’s the thing: I’m still a slave to my day job, I still have family responsibilities that voraciously command my time, and I’m involved in a couple of professional organizations I wish I had more time for. Then there’s the fact that the deeper I get into this book the more the damn thing follows me around. Like today when I was in the shower and the whole thing decided to coalesce. I mean fuck! I’m in the shower! You know what a royal ass pain it was to hurry out and get to my notepad before it was sucked away by my severely-overworked brain cells? I think I managed to get it all down, but still!

Doesn’t help I’ve put myself on a deadline. No, it’s not from the publisher this time. It’s positively my own. I think I work best that way–assinchair assinchair assinchair. Every single solid free minute not already spoken for is devoted to the act of writing–early mornings before work, complete weekends, after dinner, and late into the night. Sometimes I just sit stare. Other times the words flow like wine. I get up only to stretch my legs and refill my tea mug. Consequently my wrists hurt, my eyes feel strained, my back aches. As I write this I have a shooting pain in my thumb. I have Post-it notes all over my laptop. My bulletin boards can’t fit one more scrap of research and notes.  The hard copy of my synopsis is folded over on page four and I still have seven more pages to go. My phone needs charging. My stapler’s empty. Tea’s cold. I have a stack of bills yet to pay. My TBR pile’s getting out of control. I need chocolate. Fritos. Mint chocolate chip gelato. I’ll end up having yogurt eaten over the sink. I have an invitation to a new bar opening in town on Saturday and I still want to go. Roman Holiday‘s on TCM tonight and I still want to watch it. I’ll probably do neither. Still, still, still.

Still, I write. Sometimes so badly my Composition students would probably split their sides laughing. Sometimes so wonderfully I astound myself, thinking I’ve subconsciously plagiarized. Either way I’ll write.