I’ve been writing a book. Or rather, I’ve been writing a series a books, in fits and starts, in the few hours I can grab between doing this and doing that and pretending to be a responsible adult. I’ve got one close to done and many others started. Right now I should be pouring through my recent edits and making a crap draft into a good working draft. Instead I’m drinking chai, watching the rain and listening to the dryer.
Despite having not achieved much more than a long, long walk and few household chores yesterday, I am utterly wiped today. I feel like I’ve been beaten with sticks. Like I could sleep for a week. Hopefully the chai will clear my foggy head enough that I can intelligently string words together in some semblance of story of and character development.
I want nothing more than to lounge in bed all day and read comics. Okay maybe something more. Maybe someone could prepare my food and bring it to me and rub my feet too? I never think I’ve done terribly wrong with my life until I’m forced to confront my lack of houseboys to do my bidding, then suddenly my choices seem sinister and stupid. I could have done better. Sigh.
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