“But it’s Sunday!” you protest. “A day of rest.”
Not if you’re ME.
I set the alarm for 4:50 … gave myself twenty whole extra minutes. I shivered down the stairs and fumbled for the “up” button on the thermostat. The temperature read 62 degrees.
I opened the laptop and hit the coffee maker button.
The dogs gamboled a bit, asking, “Are we going for our walk now? Are we going now? Yay yay yay! We’re going for our walk now … we’re going for walkies now! Walkies walkies! Wait … why aren’t you putting your coat on? Why are you sitting down? Why are you shushing us?!”
They accepted my failure to accommodate them with retriever-ish good nature and lay back down.
Is it even possible to write that early?
I haven’t re-read this morning’s work yet; it may be a steaming load of feces. But I did write.
A door closes upstairs.
I can’t … I don’t … I … how? Why?
Is God trying to say, “How many times do I have to tell you? Give up the self-indulgent scribbling! I’ve tried to get the message through to you via this little perky boy, but you don’t seem to get it! You just get up earlier and earlier. Do I have to send over a thug to break your fingers?”
If this were fiction I would say, “Enough with the boy-getting-up-early scenario! You’ve flogged it to death. We get it. Ha. Ha. Wherever will she find the time to write? Come up with something new.”
Reader, if only it were fiction!
I closed the laptop. There was no cursing or resentment.
Never where my sweetie is concerned.
I grabbed a blanket and we cuddled on the couch for awhile, discussing Harry Potter and other things. (Do I think the actors Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson will get married? Why not? But what makes someone have a crush on someone else? Why does J have a crush on him? Why does he have a crush on K? He hopes K doesn’t find out he has special feelings for her.)
See. So much more important than my scribbling.
After a trip to the dog washeteria today, Cole had a friend over. I fixed them lunch, broke up some overly-exuberant wrestling, and got out the scale to demonstrate why the wrestling was not a good idea. (Cole’s friend outweighs him by sixteen pounds.)
I did manage to get in a little more writing.
Sorry to have buried the lead:
Word count for the week: 3496 words.
I will creep up on completion like a … like a … creeping thing.
Dinner is ready in four minutes. I’m outtie.