Not quite 1500 words today. Sean is off the wall. Baby steps, right? I tell myself that 1500 words is better than flash fiction, but I don't quite believe myself. Sean is ready to be king. I need to let him fly.
I yank words for the novel from my brain, but they protest with toddler-like prowess. They ferociously cling to my synapses. They don't want to come out. It's cold outside and warm in there. Exposure might mean criticism, hatred, even. Go live life instead, they whisper. The mall beckons. Target looks good for the third time this week. I have thirty minutes. Shall I write? No. I shall wipe down the counters and find dirty clothes to wash. Dinner was a well-rounded meal. PHF believes his wife of old has returned. Homework is done, backpacks are ready, lunches made, my house is clean, my closet organized, clothes for donation wait anxiously by the door to begin new lives with someone who doesn't believe in procrastination.
I'm editing three shorts for submission, as well as two contest subs--all due next week. They look pretty good to me. I have critique group subs to read and four stories in the ElectricSpec file on my laptop. The inbox is filling though, there will be more when I get back from the lake.
The lake. Three days. Loads of snow. New Polaris 600--a hotrod that says my husband is still virile. It's long and red, of course. A soft ride, but goes the distance at breakneck speed. My snowboard waits. The dog seems well (she threw up all last weekend). Kids are miraculously un-sniffly. I'll take my laptop and hard copies of stories to read.
The lake. Land of Procrastination.