I've been working on the sequel to In Another Life. Seems simple enough, check in with the characters, tell their story. But, as I expected, being an author doesn't get me out of the daily chores of life. I could be in the middle of a case, with the suspect ready to give up his part in a crime, when the dogs go crazy.
Rog, the suspect and the investigation suddenly take a back seat to the postman and the package of flea meds. Then the dogs get their own interrogation in the bathtub, followed by a half hour of cleaning the bathroom. Then there's the daily chores and an author still has to eat.
Did I mention having a 1976 Ford Maverick requires a certain amount of upkeep? Hungry 250 engines like oil and damn, the turn signals aren't working again. Then it's time to meet Margie at the airport and file the claim for lost luggage, soothing a very frustrated editor/graphic designer in the process.
Finally, I'm back at the computer, reacquainting myself with the current action. My plans for a couple thousand words cut to a couple hundred.
Then the texts start. Miranda wants to know if it's ok to talk to an eighteen year-old (no, he's a pervert) and Sunshine wants to know if she can have "the cutest little pup in the world" (are you kidd.NOOOOO! This question was asked as Damnit licked my toes in apology for eating my password cheat sheet).
And then I get a few words on screen and the thunderstorm hits. End of the night for me. Grand total: one hundred words. A novel averages seventy thousand words. It's going to be a long summer.
I've got to admit, a hundred words still beats saying, "I'm gonna write a book some day." Don't tell Margie I said that.