I’m not a morning person, and people who say “Good morning, sunshine” are very lucky I treasure my caffeine too much to toss my coffee at them. My usual waking routine consists of glaring at my children, my pets, Good Morning America, and snarling something unintelligible at my husband when he tells me to have a good day.
But by 7:30 this morning I was fully engaged in performing intense brain surgery on a PS3 controller. Status: failed. The X button is toast. Instead of having sticky soda or chocolate hanging it up, the little rubber nipple under it is losing it’s bounce-back-ability and…yeah, y’all don’t care.
Anyway. So many of the “how I write” stories by the most successful authors mention getting up at the butt-crack of dawn and turning out pages before their families are even out of bed.
Really? I gotta tell you, if that’s a requirement, I’m well and truly screwed. I can only imagine how my books would turn out if I dragged myself down to my computer at five in the morning…
Carrie staggered to the front door, not bothering to smooth her raging case of bedhead because whoever had dared ring her doorbell at such an ungodly hour deserved to be traumatized. She yanked open the door to find Bob on the other side, a massive bouquet of roses in his hand.
“I’ve been an idiot,” he declared, then he paused as though to give her time to refute it. She didn’t. “I’m sorry I blackmailed you into becoming my reluctant mistress. It was the amnesia. But now I’m sorry and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and have children and cats and dogs and I love you and—”
Carrie reached into the pocket of her robe, pulled out her .22 and shot him in the face. “Shut. Up.”
When Bob finally stopped twitching, she closed the door and went back to bed, where she slept happily ever after.