Sometimes, I don’t feel the slightest desire to write.
The well runs dry, my muse sneaks off to the boats to shoot craps, White Collar awaits on the DVR, I have a stack of library books to read, and I’d much rather drool over Handsome Men Who Are Now Dead. And I’m tiiiirrrrrrred.
But here I am, parked in the chair in front of my Netbook, the next chapter of my WIP lurking underneath the New Post window of this blog.
The children are asleep, the cat’s asleep on my foot, and my Walkman is charged.
I don’t particularly want to deal with Judith and Vince’s unspoken attraction tonight, but I’m going to do it anyway.
Because I’m a writer. And the only way to stop that from being a lie is to write.
‘Sides, the dryer just dinged, and I’ll do anything to keep from folding a basket of hot laundry right now.
Onward.
Earful of Cider 