A Writer in Waiting

My sink is full of dirty dishes, my dishwasher full of clean. The laundry needs to be moved to the dryer and the carpets could certainly use a vacuum. But I am a writer waiting on betas. Which means I must refresh my email exactly 12,483 times a day to see if anyone has left me feedback.


Yes, I know I have a problem. And yes, going on submission is far worse. I understand.

But none of this stops me from wandering the house listlessly, contemplating my own existence.

I’ve taken up learning French. Does it help?



The Sun Also Rises, Indeed

The gardens in Alcatraz are better tended than mine.

This is a difficult time of year even if most people would disagree. After all, the sun is streaming through my window, the grass is green again, the trees are bursting with tiny white petals that litter the ground like confetti, and the scent of lilacs carries on the breeze. Plus, Flip-flops.*

But with all of this sun and nature comes additional responsibilities to add to the household chore list. Now, not only do I still have last night’s dinner dishes piled in the sink and dog hair-coated carpets that need to be vacuumed, but I have several gardens to weed. And I don’t even have a green thumb. (I am SO good at weeds, though!)

Plus there’s mowing, which my incredibly thoughtful husband did for me yesterday. (Back off, ladies – he’s mine!) Oh, and today is also grocery day, which means I’m going to spend more time than I should (certainly more time than I want to) clipping coupons for my shopping trip later.

All of this amounts to losing time for myself and time for my writing, but what’s a writer if she doesn’t write?

The answer to that is simple: She’s a frustrated ball of nerves who snaps at her husband and kids.

Oh, and kids. They’ll be home from school early today because we have yet another half day for reasons I can’t even fathom. I seriously do not remember having so many random days off when I was a kid.

So I suspect I’ll be writing late tonight to make up for the time I’ve lost to adulting. Stupid adulting.

At least when it rains, I can’t mow.



*Would you like me any less if I tell you that I hate flip-flops and that it actually pains me to watch other people wear them? Like, my feet physically hurt just watching yours tromp around in flip-flops…