Ten Minutes

I've got ten minutes before I have to leave for Dayjob. If I was smart, I'd check on the state of my car windows--the last couple of days, I've gone out to find poor Brucey McGee (the car) covered in a frosty shell. This adds about five minutes to my get up and go schedule, which usually means I'm a couple of minutes late for work.

See how responsible I am? I've mathed all of that out so I can blog about it.

I don't really have a proper subject to write about today. There are several I have backlogged in the old noodle--some funny, some deep, some more along the lines of which kind of creamer I like in my coffee. Because some day I'll be all kinds of famous and they will want to know those details when they are filming my biopic (I'd like Benedict Cumberbatch to play me, by the way. Not because we look at all alike, but because First Wife loves him almost as much as she loves me, and it just seems right. Just stuff his bra a few times and no one will notice. British men wear bras, right?).

Anyway, ten minutes (six, now) isn't really enough to write about any of the things I've had in mind. I've been awake for a few hours (ghastly Dayjob schedule) but I only started nibbling on my coffee fifteen minutes ago, and I couldn't pick a subject.

So I'm writing this wrambling wreck because I really, really want to build up the habit of writing in the morning. It's already helping--I've added a few pages to the manuscript. Keeper pages, even! With quite a few bunk pages to boot. Which is infinitely more than the nothing I've come up with in the weeks past.

Hey, I was moving. And writer's blocked like you wouldn't believe.

I was freaked out about making changes and decisions that my readers wouldn't like. I believe the exact plaintive I sent to First Wife was "What if I cock it up and none of my readers trust me EVAR AGAAAAAIN" to which she replied with hellfire support and then I was okay. Then I had a breeze shooting session with Wifey, and she helped me map out the next few chapters.

This is why writers need wives, folks.

Welp, the time has come. Blech. Dayjob time. I must away, to sling bread and judge people by how many times I can mentally recite Jabberwocky  before they pick a freaking donut.

But hey, gotta pay for those fancy Dr. Who shirts somehow!

-J