I decided, yesterday, to be a couch potato. Pages were taking too long to load up on the internet making fooling around... er... researching--- yes, researching--- online too much of a pain in the buttocks. (Hey! If Julie Cohen can blog at Romancing the Blog about her buttocks, why can't I mention the fact that I have some of my own? In fact, more than my fair share, but that's neither here nor there-- they're 5 minutes behind me everywhere I go.)
But I digress.
I should have been writing, not couch spudding it.
The problem is that my children are now in school. It's blessedly quiet, except when the birds go bird-shirt over some noise. Whatever CD I'm playing hits a note that makes them all talk, or I startled them by laughing outloud at something I've read. I've found the quiet very peaceful. It's wonderful to not be spending my time saying intelligent Mommy Things like "Quit fighting." "Quit fighting, NOW. When I said it the first time, I didn't mean quit for 30 seconds and then resume." "How should I know where your shoes are? I don't wear them." "No, I really don't want to see the big mosquito bite on your butt, but thanks for asking." "I don't know what's for dinner. It's 10 in the morning."
But I'm digressing again.
I'd wanted to finish the novella I'm working on this week. (Altogether now... "Yeeeeaaaaaah! Riiiiiiiiiiight!")
That was my intention.
Perhaps I'd be closer to writing "The End" if I hadn't interrupted the day with a 2 1/2 hour nap on the sofa today. (Eyeballs sofa.) I'm pretty sure my sofa is telepathic. "Laura! Come take a nap on me, your nice, comfy, nap-able sofa! Laaaaaaaaauuurrrrrrraaaaaaaaaa!" Usually, I only hear chocolate talking, but lately, the sofa's been acting pretty suspiciously.
So, I should be writing my novella. I should be. I mean, it's not going to write itself, is it?