Okay, I have a focusing problem. I admit it. I'm finally finished plotting out book two, the sequel to Soldier's Embrace. Now I need to start going through it to make sure it's all plausible and the ends tie up nice and neat. But seriously, I can't focus anymore. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point?
I sit at the key board and then finally when the monitor has faded to black screen from waiting so long I start twirling in my chair and thinking about chocolate and where I can get it. So I trudge down stairs and I start rummaging through cub boards to find the hidden chocolate. Once I have it, I head back up stairs to where the black monitor is waiting for me, but wait, did I do the dishes?
I pause. Yes. I did them this morning during my AM writers block. I start back upstairs again and notice from the corner of my eye that my husband knocked the pillows off the couch and they're on the floor. I can't have that! You'd think I'm a neat freak, but really, if it weren't for writers block, my house would never get cleaned.
So, I trudge downstairs and thrown them back on the couch and fold up the blanket that's laying on the floor. But wait, what's this beneath the blanket? One lone sock. One sad little sock, alone and homeless. I must find its mate. So I go to the laundry room and hunt through the laundry and in doing so, I find a fondue pot that my husband and I got for our wedding 13 years ago. We've never used it for it was one of three. Not that we ever used any of them but now, when I should be writing seems like the best time to bust out a machine I've never before found use for.
Something about opening this box reminds me my neighbor turned 60 several days ago. I bought her a plant and they weren't home to drop it off. What about now? Now is the perfect time to stop what I'm not suppose to be doing to deliver a plant that I should have delivered two days ago. So, off I go. I only stay an hour because I'm suppose to be writing and I really need to research St. Louis historical hotels. But, I'm still craving chocolate. So, before heading back up stairs, I go into the kitchen to find that bag of said chocolate when I find the mess I started with the damn fondue pot.
Here it is, Saturday night and I'm trying to get these stupid metal skewers back into the box. After all, I'm suppose to be writing. How am I ever going to get book two done when I'm stuck doing this crap? I guess I was groaning and cussing because my husband comes down stairs and staring at me, he leans against the wall.
"How's the writing coming?" he asks.
I drop the box with this dramatic groan and turn and glare at him.
"I haven't been able to write, because I had to clean the living room because of the mess you made and then I had to do laundry because you left your clothes laying all over and then there's this mess laying all over the kitchen table..."
He stops me with a raise of his hand and a roll of his eyes. "Don't blame me. You came down here looking for chocolate, didn't you?"
Scary. Did I mention that we've been married for 13 years?