For anyone out there who may have thought otherwise, let me set you straight: Writing a book is some hard-ass shit. Maybe not so hard if you're a really good writer or if you've got a decent story to tell, but speaking on behalf of us with meager talent and even meagerer stories, I'm sticking with the above proclamation.
Thangs that've happened lately or are about to happen or I wish would happen:
Had to give Ernie a bath the other night at 11:30 because he ran inside all covered with what we thought at the time was blood (cue panic attack) but what turned out to be chokeberry juice. And I do mean covered. From the tips of his ears to the tip of his tail. He looked like he'd been shot. Turns out Ernie likes chasing mice through berry patches but doesn't like to get sprayed with the shower nozzle or dried with a hair dryer.
I'm on vacation all next week. Leaving for Lincoln County Tuesday and won't be back until Sunday. I'd like to give a shout out to my man John, who doesn't bitch all that much when I leave him home with five cats and a cabinet full of easy mac. He just bought a new iphone so he'll be happy and occupied for roughly 5 to 10 business days.
I'm 20,000 words into this soul-sucking NaNo excursion. I'm eating ibuprofen like skittles. Haven't read a book in two weeks and have asked for one of those tiny 10 inch acer computer things for Christmas because I don't know how much longer I can stand sitting in this desk chair without harming someone.
Stuff you should check out if you haven't already: Shit My Dad Says and
My Parents Were Awesome