I tried. I really did.
I had the best intentions in the world.
I had a plan.
I got everything off my plate. I suppressed the immediate need for a haircut. I had five hours on my hands and an office waiting. I came dropped off Rock Jr. and came back to the house to shower and grab my laptop.
Then my husband called.
Another medical emergency. Are you kidding me?
Took him to the doc. Ran tests. Not life-threatening, thank Heaven.
Got him home, ran to get meds, fix dinner.
Phone rings.
Baby won't stop crying.
Leave my husband to go sit with baby while daughter goes for pain meds.
Ear infections.
Tylonol and Ibuprofen were inspired by God himself.
Daughter will take her to the doc in the am.
Another of life's problem's solved.
I'm peeing on fires here when what I really want to do is hose the place down, hop on a motorcycle, and ride away. And when I come back, I want the place to be clean, all faces to be wearing smiles, and for there to be no trace of the mess I left behind.
Too much to ask?
Apparently, yes it is.
That is why we have/need fantasy/fiction.
I'm going to call the coast guard and have a novel flown in to rescue me.
But wait!
That's what my own stories used to do for me. They were the perfect fantasies. I wrote them to get away the same way I read to escape.
THAT is my problem. These projects aren't escapism for me anymore. They are work.
I need to turn them back into...chocolate...somehow.
New plan for tomorrow. As soon as The Rock feels like he can take care of himself, I'm jumping in the car and heading to the office, and by hell I'm going to find that fantasy lost between the pages and make them fun again.
Also, Supe and I had a little breakthrough today that we believe is going to help us get our first drafts down with a lot more polish than usual. Stay tuned. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.
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