I sold more copies of Southern Fried Women this weekend, at two Mother's Day events. It's always good to stand in front of a bunch of women and talk about my stories and my world that moves my imagination. The people I know who cause me to want to write about them. The places I've been that leap into my head when I'm plotting a story. The stuff I make up, but feels real. Very real.
At the moment, I'm up to my armpits in story. I'm in the process of writing The Sanctum. The zone, as many writers call it. I'm writing ten hours a day. The scenes are coming at me as if some major league pitcher is throwing me a bunch of fast balls. I'm afraid I can't get them written quick enough and I'll end up forgetting words and pieces as they fly in and out of my head. When I'm like this, nothing gets done around the house. Meals get missed, dirty clothes pile up, and dust -- well -- who sees it anyhow?
That's NOT a good thing. I've got something going on this Saturday that demands I clean my house. So I'm torn! I need to get on my hands and knees and clean the kitchen floor. Damn it. When all I want to do is sit at the computer and hit a home run! It's awful. Every waking minute, I'm consumed with this story. I feel like if I could just stay in my office, have Michael throw me a sandwich every once in a while, I'd be in heaven. All I want to do is write! I don't want to waste a second when I know my protagonist is hanging off a cliff!
Life is like perfume and pot roast that way, isn't it? They both smell good, separate and in their own way. But mix the two and it's nauseating. That's where I'm at right now. My life smells like perfume and pot roast. I'm overwhelmed with it. I can't write a long blog today. Chanel No. 5 is wafting around my computer and I've got a pot roast in the oven.
But I'm loving every minute of it.
Blessings to you and yours.