Hello, third novel. Writing time is a precious commodity, and I’m not trying to squander it, but what am I supposed to do when my husband is ever lovin’ shredding in the next room, and it’s so absorbing that I’m finding it really difficult to write?!

He’s prepping for a special reunion concert to celebrate the release of Southern-Fried Woolf. That is all I can say for now, and maybe even that is too much. (Details to come!!! I’m SO EXCITED!!!) P.S. The photo of Barry below is from, oh, a few years ago, and when I took it, I told him to “look like a rocker.” So that’s why he looks so angry. He’s holding his Charvel, a guitar I had bought him that Christmas and that was later stolen when we lived in Nashville. 😦

Dear Mothballs and Melancholy (the working title of you, dear WIP), of course I want to spend time with you. I went to bed thinking about you. I woke up thinking about you.

But right now, besides being distracted, I kinda want to turn a firehose on a couple of characters, though, because you know I have been trying to push them further apart, and now what’s happening? WHAT’S HAPPENING? You know, I know you do. Is this your doing?

Go to your corners, I’m saying to them, but these two… I write anti-romances, don’t you know? Not on purpose, but it’s what I seem to do. (You wouldn’t know I’ve been married over 30 years, and yes, I enjoy being married!)

If this MC were my friend, I would give her a stern talking to. I’m worried for her heart. Though I do not enjoy playing the author card, if need be, I will. (Maybe. I’m kinda philosophically opposed to telling my characters who they should be and what they should do.)

Tell me this, book, if I am “creating” you, then how come the more I write the more I “know” about you? It feels more as if I’m excavating something that already exists.

Okay, enough. This rant came from adding one word to my manuscript. When she repeated his name, I knew all was (potentially) lost. She’s hooked, g-d it, and now I have to unhook her. If I can.

Eh, this is a first draft, likely one of many. I suppose I can wait and see what happens. Hitting “delete” doesn’t cost anything.

In the meantime, lunch time has come and gone without any food, and though I should probably make something, if I do, that lovely music from the next room might stop as the musician wanders out to see what’s cooking. Literally.

Does this count as writing?

Here’s hoping…

Drēma

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