Working From Home.

In the living room, I'm writing a scene in a novel. In the dining room, my daughter draws in charcoal. She doesn't know the scene I'm writing is about an artist in her studio, and that I am grateful for the ch-ch-ch sound effect she provides. Our cat, perched in the hallway between us, watches her, not me. Should I add a cat to the scene, and make this the most meta morning of my life? No. My characters are dog people, and I can't change them now. There's no going back.

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Gardening vs. Writing

We don't have a garden. Shame, shame, a yard and no garden. My vegetables are purchased and my flowers run wild along the stone wall, like dirty, colorful, unwatched toddlers. I tell myself this is because I write, because I staked my claim of how my time will be spent, how priorities are seized on free mornings and afternoons. But I also *bites fist* don't like to garden. I don't mind the dirt or the digging. (That's like writing.) It's the sunburnt wheelbarrow-y repetition. It's the dull tedium of the rows. (That's like sending out queries.) And it's the waiting. (Argh, like going out on submission!)

Reading and researching.

While I'm taking it easy this month, I have a lot of reading research to finish up for my next novel. Since this novel involves approximately a bajillion subjects I know nothing about -- farming, sailing, genealogy, Afghanistan, amputees, and interfaith marriages -- I am making excellent use of a color-coded filing system given to me by my research Jedi master, novelist and memoirist Beth Kephart. I don't know if her new book about memoir, Handling The Truth, covers her crackajack organizational skills or not, but I'm sure looking forward to its debut this week.