The laundry sloshes in the washing machine, the canned tomatoes have been labeled and are ready to be squirreled away in the bottom corner cupboard for some chill day in November, the bed has been made, the cat has been put out to harass the backyard toads, my teeth are brushed, my hair..... well, we had a brief summit, where I made a few suggestions, but my hair usually gets to do what it wants. I stopped putting up a fight in about 1971. In other words, I am now at that point in the morning where "the project of the day" needs to be started.
Only thing is, what I want to do is write.
Write write write.
I can't help myself.
Early this morning, while looking for something else, I came across a half finished short story that I wrote months and months ago. I read it through and really liked it. But I have no idea what to do with it now. What is going to happen next? Dunno. And here's the tricky thing about writing you see, if *I* don't know, don't nobody know. I can't look it up somewhere on the internet. . . Let's see Google... okay... um.... type in the box... "What happens to Violet Winslow after she arrives safely in her hotel room after being transported back in time by opening a small book in her local used book store?"
If I type that in, I get directed to someplace called "coziescapersandcrimes". A little mystery writer's forum of some kind.
They don't know either.
Figures.
So I am going to mull it over in my mind during the next few days, what WILL happen to Violet. I'll have to rescue the poor thing soon. Her hotel bill is going to be horrendous if I don't get busy. But then, I could make her fabulously wealthy and it won't matter a whit. Although that is the easy way out isn't it?
Ever notice in a lot of the pulp romances.... SOMEBODY is always fabulously wealthy? I mean some of the TRASH that gets in print is just beyond understanding.
Only thing is, those authors are actually getting PAID for their stories.
Even if they ARE crap.
Sigh.
To tell you the truth, all I want to find out is what will Violet's next move be.
Maybe she will have to take that job at the soda fountain to pay the bills. Though I don't think she's dressed for it. Last I saw her she was wearing a plum satin dress with black calf skin boots that button up the sides, and black net gloves. Not suitable for jerking soda.
You know, I hear people talk about the "omniscient Narrator" and what not in writing circles, but let me tell you, being God is no picnic.
Excuse me, I have to take a phone call. The hotel manager is calling. Something about an overdue bill.
Gotta run.