But of the best sort. Closed inside a room away from all and everything. The hum of the a/c blocking out all other noise. That cabin in the woods I’ve sought to hide away in; got it for one day, maybe two.
Though I’ve wandered out and brought work back in here with me–the sales tax figures, laundry to be folded, books to read–I’ve managed to get some writing time in as well. The husband doesn’t mind the heat, doesn’t mind the fact that I am wilting. Comes in to check me though, and on the headache the early heat has brought me. But the writing…
Rewrote till the at-least-I-think-it’s-done-point on the latest story. Did some more work on the one I loved so prior to that. And in between, two new ones unravel down the page, a paragraph, sometimes two or three at a time. May even tackle the ending of another that’s been an elusive mystery to me for a year.
In about a week I’ll be alone for almost a week. I’ve decided to catch up on the framing and all other work before that week arrives and close the shop. Lock the house up. Stock up the fridge with grab-em, eat-em things. And maybe sleep a bit sometimes but mostly write.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology