Not on Strike

I didn't instigate the writer's strike, honest. It doesn't look like I'm writing, but blogging takes time away from the real deal, and my deadline is looming. Feb. 1st. More than a month past my return from Italy, and I'm just getting back my stride. That's stride, not strike. Not that I want to work for Hollywood, but it would be a dream to have the kind of steady in a writing career for which a strike validates it as a real job. I'm working on borrowed time, as you know, so I'll keep this brief. I'm on chapter 8, though it's still slow. Italy set me back weeks before I left, and I was a slug afterwards. Couldn't get back into my rhythm. Lots of household and family management details to attend to. (I'm still a mom.) I couldn't find the groove, plus, I'm not the kind of gal that can sit still for very long. Thoughts don't come flooding out of my head; they drip. Yep, I'm more like a leaky faucet kind of writer. I sit down. I get up. I go to the fridge. Sit back down. Get up. Check for the mail. Put in a load of laundry. Fix a few sentences. Check email. Think. Think. Think. Write and then find a drawer full of empty change that needs to be collected. See? Today, it's the blog. Crap. Back to the bucket.