Enough of this family time, friends coming to visit, drinking in the afternoon with aforesaid friends, and introspection. It is the long slog of January. No one is going to come to your house bearing fudge. Those bills have to get paid. Teri has to be beaten in Words with Friends. Novels need to be written. That book won’t write itself, you know. It’s cold now in the northern half of the northern hemisphere; what the fuck else do you have to do?
Grab that last piece of fudge, get off the internet, and write.
This post is dedicated to one of my favorite lurkers, whom I saw in person yesterday.
No one is going to come to your house bearing fudge.
Sadder words were never read.
Happy New Year Indy.
Indy = The Intimidator!
Can it be a happy new year sans fudge?
Can you believe that one of my friends brought a real live chocolate fountain to our New Years’ Eve minor extravaganza? Ripples potato chips and chocolate is how I roll.
(Maternal Clause just rolled in her grave.)
You are joking, right?
Nope.
People do occasionally bring fudge to the library, but not, unfortunately, in January.
But you’re right, novels don’t write themselves—they may tell themselves, in the backs of our minds, but that’s an incomplete process, darn it. Laser (printer) vision would help , or psychic paper, but it’s those kind of thoughts that keep me on the Internet instead of in Word. . .
Geez, so bossy already. It may surprise you to learn that I have been setting my alarm for 5am, the better to get a jump start on my writing. And that I have not ignored my alarm or slapped the snooze button, but have gotten my early-morning coffee infusions and my word counts too.
Take that, Indy Clause.
You’re way ahead of me. I talk big, but am a total slouch
. But, but! I’m going to the library this afternoon to write.