I opened two cans of them yesterday and their squiggly little butts are
still all over the place.
Let me explain.
*”Good luck with that,” the
furry, four-legged muse gripes from the right side of the keyboard. “I’ve been
squashing the squishy things all night and I see no end in sight. Save
yourselves.”*
Can #1… When authors sit
down and take hard, objective looks at their works-in-progress sometimes a
particularly vile worm of contention will raise its slimy head and proceed to
cuss the writer out. It doesn’t matter if you had honestly thought that an
admirable job had been done with a character or a situation. It doesn’t matter
if your way is structurally and dramatically sound. The worm is out and must be
dealt with before the darn thing breeds and takes over the whole of your
literary landscape.
*the muse shakes her fuzzy head
in disgust. ”Ok, that made no sense. I’m living it, and it made NO sense. Just
move on to Can #2 before you lose all credibility, babe.”
Can #2… Trips to
psychiatrists are good, helpful, even necessary for folk like me, but once you
pop open the lid on the old noggin for inspection, you never can tell what will
crawl out. While my appointment went very well yesterday and all parties are
pleased with the progress being made, once I got back home a horde of old, little
worries wiggled their way to freedom. One by one, they’re being shoved back
into their hidey-holes where we can all pretend they don’t exist. Until then,
however, things are a bit messy around here. Sorry about that.
Friday should be less wormy and more coherent.
*”We can only hope,” the dog
rolls her bloodshot eyes. “Now, get our crazy butts out of here before they
start tossing rotten tomatoes at us.”*
Will do.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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