All my grand plans of crafting literary glory today died on the vine,
wilting before they even gained color or shape.
It’s a sad, sad day at the Stowe House of Words this afternoon. Not a
single syllable found paper or screen.
Can we say Failure, everyone?
*RAP, RAP, RAP! at the back door*
Crap.
Frank.
My specter of imminent failure, the ghoul who’s been camped out in the
far corner of my backyard the last few days, is now grinning at me like a lardy
loon through the window pane.
“the kitchen table scrapes and
shrieks across the floor as it’s shoved against the door*
I am not letting that bastard back inside over one failed day of
writing.
Admittedly, it’s now three days since I’ve actually done any writing,
but company, car wrecks and hackers have to take precedence at certain times,
right? So while I may feel guilty for neglecting my fictional pursuits (No,
let’s change that to “pursuits in fiction;” yeah, that sounds much, much better
*lol*), I will not cave to Frank’s
stalking.
I will not.
Nope.
At least not until tomorrow.
If I can’t get at least a couple hundred words of something beyond blog
written I will have no choice but to let the foul-mouthed spook back in.
But not tonight.
No way.
Pardon me while I go tip the freezer against that darn rapped-upon
door.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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