A Day Off

It’s Monday. My schedule is flexible—changing every week—but for this week, Monday means a day off.

“Lucky you,” you say. “I never get a day off!”

Well, believe me, you have my sympathy and utmost respect. I applaud any parent who can manage to keep their house from self-destructing whilst working full time. I don’t know how you do it. Seriously, I don’t.

As for me, I work part-time so that I can manage the day-to-day life of a military family with teens (hubby is away…frequently), but really, my days off are supposed to be writing days. 

With two published books and numerous manuscripts in various stages of completion, I still cringe inside when I call myself a writer, but in reality being a writer is a job. A career. Some extremely fortunate people get to write full time. I am not one of those fortunate people (YET) so for now, my days off are technically working days, just with a different career path. Days off are days supposed to be spent in my favourite writing spot, hammering away at the keyboard while building worlds and creating magic. Days off are creative days, quiet days, productive days while the kids are at school, hubby is at work and my mind has a few blissful hours to focus on the screen in front of me.

Ha ha ha ha.  HA! HA!

Lets just take a look at how today started out...

Yell at kids to get their butts in the car. Frantically make coffee because I NEED CAFFEINE. Dishwasher full of clean dishes, countertop full of dirty dishes. Scrounge to find a cup. Pour coffee. Discover there is no milk to put in coffee. Yell at kids to get in car.  Skip breakfast—no milk for cereal. Too late for toast.

Take milk-less coffee with me. Drop kids at schools. Go to grocery store to get milk. Spend an hour in grocery store because I need a meal plan to get me through a crazy week. Buy a gazillion dollars worth of food. Light goes on in car—need gas. Stop to get gas. Drive home. Start putting groceries away, fridge is too full of last weeks leftovers. Empty fridge of science experiments to make room. Garbage is full. Empty garbage and put in new bag. Pantry is full of empty boxes, dismantle boxes and put in recycling, but recycling is overflowing so empty that. Put away rest of groceries.

Realize my coffee is cold. Make new coffee and leave sitting on counter. Try to find a recipe for chicken-creamy-something-put-it-all-in-a-crock-pot-and-leave-it so I can at least get an hour or two of writing done before kids need to be picked up. Give up on recipe books and find something on pinterest in ten seconds. Chop and dump and put nutritious food in crock-pot.  No space, so empty dishwasher and refill it first. Finish crock-pot meal prep. Realize coffee is cold. Nuke it in the microwave.

Remember that kid needs gym clothes washed. Reset laundry that I washed yesterday because it’s been sitting there overnight and has a bit of a smell (I have a thing with smelly laundry...). Trip over cat. Feed cat. Realize dog is outside in the rain. Let dog in and dry his muddy, disgusting paws.

Remember coffee is still in the microwave, cold. Nuke it again.

Sit down for two seconds to take a breath and realize I don’t have coffee. Go to get coffee. Look at the clock and realize it’s now noon and I haven’t had breakfast. Grab a banana. Sit down. Hear the washer finish it’s cycle, go switch it over, but the dryer is full so empty that and fold clothes. Put gym clothes in washer.

Remember coffee is still in microwave. Nuke it again.

Sound familiar? I’m sure you’ve all had similar days. Big, empty days off that suddenly evaporate and it’s fifteen minutes before you have to go again. How does it happen? Some days that coffee is never warm enough to drink it, and I’m lucky if I write a hundred coherent words—today being one of them.

The good news is, I’ve finally managed to sit down with my laptop and I’ve got two hours left to write. The dog is dry. The crock-pot is cooking. The laundry is doing it’s thing, the counter is clean, the groceries are put away, the recycling is out, the fridge is full and I’ve turned on some peaceful music to write by.

And guess what?  My coffee is beside me.

Cold.

Brenda

Wintery Wednesday

Zeus and I (photo credit: Vicki Morrison)

As a result of this wickedly wintery weather we've been having, I've been working a lot on my WIP tentatively titled FROZEN. It's set in present-day rural Maine, in a snowmageddon type of storm, and the world's supply of oil is basically gone. I posted a small excerpt a few weeks ago.

Anyway, it's pretty easy to work on something like this when just walking outside freezes your nostrils shut. Today's high is in the -15F range. I've been soaking in the heat from the woodstove, working on this and having a rather good writing streak.  Thought I would share a bit more with you all. Keep warm and enjoy.

It’s so cold the snow makes that squeaking sound as I walk down the driveway. My nose hairs freeze together and my breath fogs the air, blurring the winter world before me. I’m thankful for Mom’s coat, which is too big but warm, and for my new mittens that I managed to knit myself with only a couple of dropped stitches. I'll never be a competitive knitter, if such a thing exists. Bomber barks and strains at his chain as I walk by, not to hurt me but because he’s not keen on being left alone outside.

“Sorry, Bomb,” I mutter through my already-damp wool scarf. “I’m late.” He whines once and then disappears through the crooked door of his shack. He’s not sticking around in the cold. Smart dog.

I trudge down to the road—squeak, squeak, squeak—trailing behind Frankie and Meadow, the twins, wishing I could stay home where it’s warm. No such luck. I pull my scarf further up around my face and scrunch my neck to escape the wind, mentally reviewing my list as I turn right and head down the hill to the stop. Fire stocked, check. Lights off, check. Animals fed, check. Door locked, check… the roaring of the bus behind me interrupts my list.

“Crap.”

Our bus driver is notorious for leaving kids in the dirt. “Crappity-crap.” I grasp my bag tightly, and sprint the last hundred feet to the stop—skidding to a halt at the same time as the bus. The door screeches even louder than the brakes, and old George the bus driver scowls as I follow my brother and sister on, slamming the door shut with a squeaky clunk. The whole bus could use a coat of oil. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head. It all comes down to oil now, Janie-girl. We don’t have it…and only those who know how to live without it will survive.

 

 

Brenda.

Snow Day!

Today is our first 'Snow Day' of the school year. In our house snow days are stay-in-your-pjs, playing-games-and-watching-tv, baking kind of days. They're sitting-by-the-fire-and-drinking-hot-chocolate kind of days.

Because travel is unsafe (there's a half of inch of ice on the roads--rather like a skating rink out there), all pre-planned activities are off until further notice. Who doesn't love a free day off?

One of the projects I'm currently working on, a YA pre-dystopian set in rural Maine, opens in a blizzard. A 'weather bomb' as they sometimes call it. What if our beloved snow day was set in a rural area when the world's oil had all but run out? What if there were no plows, salting trucks and snowmobiles to help us get out of the mess? I've tentatively entitled it 'FROZEN' and I'm about 16,000 words in. Here's an excerpt for your stormy-day reading pleasure...

He’s taller than me, almost three inches taller. He looks like Dad in many ways, just skinnier. Tall, dark hair and freckles. He twiddles a piece of timothy in his hands—hands that likely harvested that very piece of timothy. Hands that have seen more work than some of his friends will see in their entire lives.

“Do you think we’ll ever see Dad again?” he finally asks. I should have seen that coming. Of all of us, he understood Dad the best.

I look away, watching as Smoke paces in his stall, then puts his head back down, looking for more hay.

I don’t want to lie to Frankie. I love my little brother, and in some ways I’m the closest thing to Dad that he’s got right now.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly, and that’s the truth. I don’t know if he’ll survive whatever he’s thrown himself into. And if he does survive, I don’t know how he’ll be able to make it back to us. Anything that can cross the ocean needs oil to do it, and the government wouldn’t risk sending its soldiers in a wind-powered ship. At least I don’t think they would.

“You miss him a lot,” I say.

“Yah.” His voice does that pitch see-saw again.

I don’t reply. I miss Dad, but I’ve learned to live without him. Frankie misses him more, needs him more. How can I help a fourteen year old boy find his way? I’m just a mall-queen turned tom-boy. I put my arm around him and rest my head on his shoulder. Instead of leaning away, like a boy, he leans back…like a man.

We sit there listening to the animals chomping and squawking until the wind begins to blow.

 

Brenda :)

Work In Progress Update...

After weeks of barely time to to think, let alone write, I finally managed to sit down to work on my WIP (Adult Contemporary, tentatively titled DEPENDENT) this week.  Thought I'd share a little Monday teaser. I'm sure some of you will recognize these feelings...

I gradulally rein in my emotions, taking slow, even breaths as John tells me about his trip—the flight over the Rockies, the turbulence over the prairies, the obnoxious jokes bantered around in the cock-pit. I make the required noises, the “Uh-hums” and the “Yeahs” and the “Ohs” that he wants to hear. The normalness of the conversation is soothing. He goes places, I listen to his stories, and live my life through his excitement. He longs for time with the kids, sitting at home, and I long for the excitement of new places and unknown skies.

“I gotta go,” he says after a few minutes more. “Meeting the crew for a debrief at seven.”

“Okay,” I say, and the panic starts to rise again.

“I’ll call you tomorrow if I get a chance, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you,” he says.

“Love you too…” I reply, and then he hangs up.

I put the phone on the cradle slowly, the familiar emptiness expanding within me. I’m a thousand miles away in his hotel room, and I’m right here on this slowly disappearing mound of laundry. I shouldn’t really miss him yet, he’s only been gone a few hours, but I miss what he is to me. He’s safety and warmth, and someone to talk to. He’s a raft in a windswept sea of insanity. He’s normal and happy and calm and silly and all of the things that make life bearable. I miss that.

I’m still staring at the phone when it rings again.

 

 

I just hit 47,000 words with this one and am hoping to finish it by the end of October.  And then it's NaNoWriMo time! November is all about a a sequel to Treasure in the Flame. I'm rolling around ideas for a name for Treasure #2.  Hmmmmm....

Have a great Monday!

 

Brenda