Ouch

My four year old thinks my baby is going to come out my mouth.

I told him that no, baby boy would not come out my mouth. Then I carefully explained in a semi-appropriate way how the baby would emerge from my body.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

Then he said, but probably from your mouth?

I think that would be a lovely picture book. If you decide to write it, I get 50% of all profits.

I don’t have anything else really to say other than nothing much is going on in my brain, FYI, and I mix up my words and I keep writing and rewriting and then not writing and then writing and then nothing. Nothing mostly. I’m not much good at anything these days.

Oh well.

Love.

Things that Don’t Matter

To start: Kyra posted last week and for some reason it didn’t go up. She just wanted you to know.
And now for my blog that I hope posts . . .

This is the last week of April.
Two things should happen.
I should finish this rewrite.
I should get us moved.

The deal is, I don’t really want to move
and
I don’t really love this book I’m working on.

Still–well, we all know what has to happen on both counts, right?
Half what I have to do is ‘easy’ in a really hard way. I mean, I call the piano movers, make sure the old house is clean and the people in my new house don’t leave it wrecked (I have this way weird feeling about that . . .), change the electricity and gas and cable. I have to pack the boxes and dishes and clean the old fridge and mop floors and try and find my beautiful ring that I love and have lost because of moving things and hope the rain stops. It’s all this physical labor and we all know what a silly neck I have so I have to be careful. And when I am done and have settled my girls and my mom and the dog all around me, hopefully we won’t have to move again, right? That’s the hope. A place of my own. A way to seal off the last few crummy years and do something that will make me strong and give my girls a real feeling of security.

I want all that.

The other half, this rewriting, well, I’m kind of stumped.
Every morning for an hour or so I’ve gotten up and worked on the book and added scenes and taken things out that seemed weak and wondered how I was going to make the dsytopian feel real. If only rewriting was as easy as packing a box or calling Comcast.

Are the new words working?
Am I developing the scene and drama and people in the way I should?
Should I keep four characters (we all know that may be one too many for me to handle)?
Is the action moving?
Why is the bad guy the bad guy? I think I know, but is it enough?
Why did the people’s feet swell right before they died in the movie last night?
Is there time to exercise or is packing boxes and doing rain dances enough to burn fat?
How I do I clean my mattress top?
Okay, wait, this is kind of what happens as I’m writing. My brain feels like there are too many things in it and I have to try and solve them all.

This is what I want: A good book. A really good book that is different from anything I have written before.
And a place to set up my office, even if it means squishing it into my bedroom.

So deep breath. For several hours today I am going to concentrate on this DD. I can pack and think, you know? I can work on the worries of the book.
April Marathoning, right?
That’s what we’re all doing.
Not just me.
All of us are doing the hard things (or thongs, depending) and for a moment each day we can share stuff on this blog and with people who understand and know we’re not a lone.
Right?

I have some really awful icky gross gossipy stuff for next week. Not sure I’m going to share because you will all feel less about me.
But
it’s about books signings
and how if I EVER get this DD done . . .

I’m just saying.