What am I going to write about?
What, What, What?
Open Twitter. Find a thread where an unknowing and naïve person says to a writer,
Writing a book must be so easy!
Bark out loud in shock! Cover mouth because I will wake the kids and the husband who is working nights and then they will invade my space and I will get absolutely nothing done. Revel in liking every single response from all the writers who responded back with hilarious, shocked, pissed off gifs. I love twitter. And there goes another half hour.
Not only do I have a novel to complete drafting—I am currently taking a course through the Writer’s Digest University and my next assignment is due in less than 24 hours, my author website needs updating, the bookkeeper is waiting for our farm books, I still haven’t unpacked the kids back packs from summer camp, there are half completed renovations in the back yard, the barn chores need completing, fur balls, laundry heaps and dirty dishes are threatening to mutiny all over my house, bills need paying, I promised myself I was going to submit a blog to Andy Rourke’s website and next weekend is the Muskoka Novel Marathon wrap up and I still haven’t read the books I bought from the other authors this summer and THIS BLOG IS DUE.
How?
How do I waste so much time? I know it’s a talent, but why do I have to be so darn good at it?
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