My deck is soaked. A gray overcast hangs over head. I’m still in my pajamas. Glad that I’m home. It should be a good day for writing, but I’m doing everything, but… Why is that? Is it because I am overwhelmed? I have so many pans in the fire that I smell something burning.
The series, Hoarders, is on, reminding me of my days as a caseworker at social services. Twenty years ago. Yes, I know I’m dating myself. Is there a story in there as well? Maybe someday. But not today.
My characters are calling me, asking me to finish writing their story and deadlines loom. How do other authors do it?
I think I’ll have another cup of coffee.