Like Scrubbing

It’s a day to curl up after I’ve chipped whatever words I can out of my cranium, watch the threadbare winter sunshine out my office window, and take a few deep breaths. The characters aren’t speaking, and I’ve worked around them as much as I’m able. There’s also the damn cabinets to get done. I am determined, the task has assumed an importance completely out of proportion to its necessity.

Which probably means that I need some manner of soothing repetitious motion, like scrubbing, to jostle the words loose and make the characters start talking again. A walk might do it, but the prospect of being cheerfully hailed by other people out with their pets or just taking a constitutional makes me shrivel a little inside. Solitude is what’s needed, my own warm nest.

So. I have a cup of ginger peach tea, a few more sentences to string in Cal and Trinity’s story, and then it’s to the cupboards. I wish you, dear Reader, just as much peace and tranquility as I expect to have today. (Note I don’t say “as much as I get.” I’m well acquainted with the curse such a phrase might call down.)

Over and out.