WHELLLLP, it’s August 24 and I’m still only three quarters of the way through the first draft of the book that was supposed to be on sale right now so… that didn’t work out. I mean, giving yourself deadlines is good, right? But there’s that whole REALITY thing out there where you gotta figure out money and kids and surviving a pandemic in a city where you witnessed not one, not two, not three or four but more than a handful of maskless outdoor parties in public spaces.
My kids are not only bored–and I’m running out of ideas, ya’ll–but getting feisty and malcontented and … physically aggressive. So my main focus–again, other than getting enough money to buy groceries–has been tamping down on those biting, scratching, carrying on like an actual animal behaviors.
How do you write for fun when the world is falling apart? How do you write a feel-good fluffy luv story when your feral child is quite literally biting your leg?
Props to the people who are getting it done. But I am not among you.
I’m not giving up. Just… accepting reality. Again.