The Sky is Falling! The Sky is Falling!

THUNK

goes Harlequin Horizons

(sorry, couldn’t help myself)

Musical chairs, pens, and pads

Over the past two days I haven’t been able to get comfortable. I switched desk chairs. I wrote on the couch in my office. I wrote at the kitchen table. I wrote from the couch in the living room. I wrote while at the dining room table.

I’ve written on my computer. On legal pads. In my journal. And even in one of those tiny little spiral notebooks I used to write down homework assignments when I was in junior high.

I’ve written with a black pencil, a pink pencil with silver hearts, a black pen, a blue pen, and a purple pen.

My output is creative and productive. So much for my post the other day about the importance of routine.

What/where/how do you write?

Apparently it’s not a good idea

to write while cooking breakfast

because the place fills with smoke

and the fire alarm goes off.

Sorry honey!

Back in the saddle

(for the record I would never willingly climb back into a saddle because I’m afraid of heights and terrified of oversized four-legged modes of transportation — I blame this on the trauma I suffered as a five-year-old when a camel spit in my face as I sat on his back)

But I digress. Yeah, I know, I digressed before I started.

For the first time in three weeks I had a “normal” day. I wrote quite a bit on the WIP (most of which I can’t read today as I try to type it up…that’s pretty standard for me) ran my usual Monday errands, and even went for a short run. (I can exercise for thirty minutes without coughing once, but the moment I start to eat or speak the coughing starts again — VERY annoying).

All of this has me thinking about how important routines are for productivity. Yesterday went just like a Monday should and I got more done on my story than I had in the entire week before (tho I must admit last week was emotionally trying/draining). So I’m back in the saddle.

Hi Ho Silver, Away!

Richard Castle’s book — Heat Wave

It’s been a miserable couple of weeks around here, but things are finally looking up.

This wknd I was in the mood for something light and fun, so I read Heat Wave by “Richard Castle”. (The entire book is part of a clever marketing scheme — Richard Castle, a wildly successful author, is a fictional character played by Nathan Fillion on the ABC show CASTLE. This book is supposedly the book Richard Castle has written about the detective he shadows on the show. It’s really not as confusing as I’m making it sound…)

Whoever actually wrote the book did an excellent job of capturing the easy, breezy tone of the show. I could believe that it reads like something Richard Castle could have written.

Is it a great book? Not exactly, but it did keep me mildly entertained for a couple of hours (and yes, I chuckled aloud a couple of times).

It was just what the doctor ordered.

And I’d definitely read the next Richard Castle book (assuming there’ll be one) the next time I’m emotionally exhausted.

Reading Material

I couldn’t freakin’ see while I was sick, but I did read a little.

No, I didn’t read the dozen or so novels I brought home from the conference I’d just attended.

Instead I read all about “Palliative Care and Pain Management at the End of Life”. Light, uplifting material to be sure.

Okay it was dense and depressing, but I found it fascinating. In case you needed further proof there’s something a little off about me…

Those who can’t think, teach

Okay, usually it’s “those who can’t do, teach” but after standing on line to vote and hearing the following conversation I’m amending that.

Teacher (who’d already pissed me off because the idiot couldn’t figure out whether to stand in the A-K line or the L-Z line): I’m here to vote.

Poll Worker: Your last name?

Dumb-ass teacher gives last name.

Poll Worker: You’re not in here. Are you sure you’re in the right district?

Teacher: I teach at the school next door.

Poll Worker: But do you live in this district?

Teacher: No I live in (names a town 30 minutes away in ANOTHER COUNTY)

Poll Worker: Well then you can’t vote here.

Teacher: Why not?

Poll Worker: Because you have to vote in your home district. Do you have the ballot that was mailed to you? It tells you exactly where to go.

Teacher: So what am I supposed to do?

I cannot stress how much effort it took to not tell her exactly what I thought she should do.

“Everybody looks like a killer to me…

…It’s a job requirement.”

Okay, so I stole the line from this week’s episode of Castle, but it’s true!

Fevered dreams

Last night I dreamt I was training for my next half- marathon in a mall (I’d already done four miles and taken 30 seconds off my per mile pace) and couldn’t decide whether I should turn right or left at The Gap.

My fever’s been higher today so tonight’s dreams (assuming this stupid cough won’t keep me up ALL night) should be even more interesting.

Would you get in the elevator?

So there’s this guy in my bldg I call the Crazy Russian (to be fair, I call his entire family the Crazy Russians). He spends an inordinate amount of time in his bathrobe…come to think of it, so does his wife (in her bathrobe, not his…that would be a whole other story).

I’ve never seen anyone else in my building in their nightclothes, but I see them with some regularity.

So I go down to get the mail and there’s the Crazy Russian in the lobby in his bathrobe. I silently curse the woman who insisted blinds cover the glass door to the garage, because now I never know who’s lurking in the lobby.

He’s picking up a delivery a box, flashing a little too much skin for my comfort level and his dog is stuck in bathrobe (it’s some little yappy thing that doesn’t like anyone born in America — the CR told me that once).

So I do my best to smile politely while I try to decide if the dog’s head (teeth bared) sticking out btwn the folds of fabric reminds me more of a baby or an alien (I decided alien because of the whole teeth thing).

Then the CR holds the elevator for me and seemed inordinately displeased when I said I’d take the stairs (I’d taken the stairs down, and I’ve run into him any number of times in the stairwell (usually when he’s in his bathrobe) so it’s not like I never take them.) He seemed to guess that I didn’t want to get in the elevator with him.

So here’s my question: Would you get in the elevator with a half-dressed Crazy Russian with his American-hating dog just to be polite?