This is sad -- it's spring break here, which means, for me, that I can put in six hours a day working on book six of the trilogy (heh, I know, a six trilogy, it cracks me up, too, and actually I think it's going to be seven or eight books long) and YET still have time to cook dinner, something I haven't done for the past two years, which is how long I've been writing the trilogy, the past two years.
I mean, once in a while I cook dinner. Not often, though. Because when the muse is riding you hard, dinner (and laundry and vacuuming and remembering to get the recycling out and every other small detail) gets left by the wayside, most of the time. I believe I mowed the lawn twice last summer.
But here during Spring break, the kid and I have been spending time together, when I'm done writing for the day. We go to the library. We make corn muffins. We read books in the white chair. We fold laundry. And? I make dinner.
Which led to her comment last night as I was clearing the table.
Wistfully, hopefully, just *like* Oliver Twist, she asks, "Are we going to eat dinner again tomorrow night?"
You can send the Bad Mother awards this way anytime.
3 hours ago