Just took a few days off to celebrate finishing my 4th book. This one is tentatively titled “The Inconvenient Duke”.
It turned out to be radically different from the story I thought I was going to be writing, which led to some difficult moments in June. I was not master of my own fate, or my character’s lives. They did what they wanted, while I ran helplessly along side, screaming, “Stop it! We’re going to get in trouble!”
But I like the way it all turned out, and am sitting here, hoping that my editor feels the same.
Getting ready to start my next book, with the current title:
“I Need a New Water Pump for a ’98 Plymouth Voyager.”
I hope it’s not too mercenary to admit that I am willing to write for money. This has to do with the fact that I usually need money. Something here is usually broken, or on the verge of breaking, or in need of replacement. And there are two teen-agers, headed toward college, one of whom wants a car.
He has asked me on several occasions to contribute to said car, if he hasn’t raised enough money by the end of summer. This is one of the funniest things I’ve heard in months. I laugh and laugh.
And then I point out that the next book is not going to be called, “I’m Buying My Son a Car.” or even “I’m Buying Myself a Porsche, and You Can Use the Van: If You Fix the Water Pump.”
In the long-ago, I used to read Barbara Cartland novels, once in a while. And I remember Dame Babs, in her author picture, lounging on a chaise or divan of some kind. With possible tiara and lapdog. Or did I just imagine those? In any case, it was very Rococo.
Sliding headfirst into Book 5, over here. And loving my job. Loving my editor. Loving my characters, even when they do not do as I expect.
But still have not received the lapdog/tiara shipment. Not even rhinestones. Damn. I get paid, of course. But not purebred shitzu money. My checks are more ‘elderly golden retriever maintenance’ level.
Which can get kind of pricey, come to think of it. Once you get enough miles on a golden, the back end starts to go (knees and hips). It’s kind of like the up-keep on a ’98 min-van. They wobble and shimmy when they turn corners.
So no lapdog, no diamonds, and I still do not have a chaise. But I frequently get to lounge around. I can lay on the couch with a pillow over my head, if I wish, and legitimately claim to be hard at work. Since the story comes from the subconscious, and the best way to gain access to that is by falling asleep, I can nap on company time, as it were, and still claim a full day’s work.
I love my job.