Okay. I need to write like half the book today. Here I go ... opening the file ... holy crap! That's all I've written so far? I won't panic. I won't panic. I WON'T PANIC. Maybe I should turn on Investigation Discovery Channel for background noise. You know, so I don't feel so alone and panicked. Click. OMG! That poor woman. Who would kill her and her three children? OMG! Her best friend murdered her and her kids? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? Shit. I didn't write for an hour. Maybe those five words during the commercial about the Dyson Digital Slim. I want one of those. And I think I need we need an alarm system, too. In case my child and I accidentally run into a burglar when we come home. And maybe I do need term-life insurance. And new cleaning supplies. Wait. Why are all these commercials targeted toward women? How many women stay at home and watch ID channel all day? Oh, gawd. Not that idiotic State Farm commercial. The wife stomps down the stairs demanding to know who her husband is talking to at three in the morning. He's all like, "State Farm." And she all grabs the phone and demands, "Who IS this? What are you wearing?" Really? REALLY? She's acting like a shrew. Maybe she has a reason to believe her husband is engaging in bad behavior. Maybe he had an sexual addiction to calling 900 numbers or he's cheated on her with that slut from work ... JUST GET A DIVORCE ALREADY.
Fuck this. I'm turning off the television. The dogs need a potty break, and I need more coffee. I'm out of coffee? I'll just have water. Did I eat breakfast? Yeah, yeah I did. I probably shouldn't write in the bedroom. I think that contributes to sleep problems, or something. Plus, the dogs nap next to me, and that makes me sleepy, so ...yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn. Maybe just a couple minutes. A power nap. What just happened? Fuck! I slept for an hour and half? Okay. Enough. Time to write. A lot. The dogs need a potty break. Maybe I'll go get a snack. Okay. I'm ready. Ugh. Why did I leave the story there? I can't remember what I wanted to do next. Maybe the husband has a sexual addiction to 900 numbers. Or the protagonist goes out for cleaning supplies, and someone robs her house. Hmmm. What do either of those things have to do with the plot of two werewolves falling in love? Whatever. I'm still taking the cable bill off my taxes because RESEARCH. I wonder what's on the ID channel. Maybe Deadly Women. Or Swamp Murders. Or ... no, no, no. Focus. FOCUS. Breathe. Write. Excellent. I've got momentum. Day-amn. That was like, a whole 200 words.
Knock. Knock. Argh! What do you want, boy? Can't you see I'm writing? Well, then open the door. WHAT? Are your arms broken? You know how to fix yourself lunch. No, Cheese-Its and a Pepsi don't count as a meal. Make a sandwich and drink some water. I don't care if that's what you had yesterday. Yes, you can have Cheese-Its as long as you also have a sandwich. Would you let the puppies out? They need a potty break. I better check my email. And then look up that thing I was looking up yesterday before I got distracted with reading about Justin Bieber's douchy-ness. That kid needs needs a therapist or a better publicist. HEY! CAN YOU LET THE DOGS BACK IN? I'M WRITING!
Sweet. I finally got some flow. The heroine gets shot. Yeah. And she needs a doctor. Oh, shit. I was supposed to make a doctor's appointment. And pick up that prescription. Damn it. I was going to mail those packages, too, and I gotta hit the grocery store. Maybe I could do that all tomorrow. But that's what I said yesterday. CASSANOVA LEAVE THOSE CATS ALONE THEY DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. The hubby will be home soon. I should probably take a shower. And then go buy food. Then I'll write. Tomorrow.