July 23, 2013

heat stroke (not key stroke)

"Get to work on your effing novel, Ma!"*

Bingley has no sympathy for my desire to read the latest scoop on the royal baby. 

(What do you think the name will be??? I'm somewhere between George and Henry... Maybe Richard... I like Henry best, and wouldn't mind that name being on trend for a couple of years. Hell, it already kind of is, amiright?)

He also doesn't care that I'm playing serious catch-up on Game of Thrones

(In the midst of season 2, bro. Winter is coming, the imp is getting even sassier, the red witch is turning all Fatal Attractions and that blonde chick has effing dragons. Shit's gettin' real in Westeros.)

The new Catching Fire trailer came out, and I've only watched it five times. "So what?" says Bing.

(Did you see it????? Did you? can we talk about all the awesome??? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

He doesn't even give a crap that its 100 degrees outside, and all I want to do is sprawl out with a smutty book and drink chilled white wine in my underwear. 

(Hemingway was a drunk. Why can't Bing's mommy be one, too? Oh dear, I spilled.)

No, my sweet Bing wants me to stop dreaming about being a published author and start living like one. And the most important part of becoming an author is stepping away from the distractions and getting busy with the word count. 

I can't blame this temporary writer's block on the story.

The book isn't boring by any means. Fact: My heroine just met the guy she's ultimately going to win over and sweep off his feet. (I'm a modern kinda gal -- my heroine will do the wooing if she wants!) Their meet-cute is a super fun part of the story, and I'm totally psyched out of my mind to write it down... Eventually.

But it's easier to sit and think about it than it is to make it happen. Especially when tone has the attention span of a fly these days.

Aside from turning off the Internet modem and throwing my iPhone under a moving car, what other ways can a gal get past her heat-induced cabin fever and get back in the writing groove? 

Suggestions and prayers for a cool rain are welcome.

Until then, I suppose I'll just have to tough it out and get serious or suffer Mr. Bingley's displeasure. And I hate the early wake-up calls and piles of vomit that accompany his moodiness. Or as I call it, "50 Shades of Bing."

I know, I know. I lead a sad life when I'm making lewd jokes at the expense of my perfectly sweet cat. Freaking heat wave. Has me doing all kinds of crazy things.

(Like devoting a blog post to my cat's alleged concerns regarding my writing career and likening him to a fictional megalomaniac millionaire with a twitchy palm when the poor dear is obviously yawning in that photo. Adorable, pooky.)

Mind out of gutter, Laura.

* Artistic license taken. Mr. Bingley is nothing but a gentleman and would never dream of cursing me out. For serious.

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