Sorry to be gone so long. I was working, at least part of the time. I have another book due on the 25th. As of yet, it has no title.
My stories rarely do.
But I had to take a side trip, in the middle of the process, to write a short story, All Hallows’ Joy, which will be up for free at
As of September 15th.
And amongst it all, I am in preliminary talks with a bunch of other authors to do a continuity series (8 interlinking stories) that will be out in 2010.
So, a little busy.
And since they actually pay me to do this, I used some of the money to try to keep up with the household entropy. We replaced the living room furniture.
We did not mean for this to cost as much as it did. But the couch had reached a state where it was physically impossible to sit on it, without needing chiropractic adjustment, the love seat showed signs of bottoming out without warning, and all the characters on the TV were surrounded by a weird orange halo.
It was time.
But there was nothing wrong with the chair.
So, we go to the furniture store. Since I picked out the last couch, and it was an unmitigated disaster, I told my husband to pick the next one. “You sit. Tell me what’s comfortable.”
We were drawn to a grouping with hidden recliners in the couch, and a possible cup holder in the love seat. Nice looking furniture for lazy slobs who want to fall asleep in front of the TV, but don’t want to have to fight for the only good spot.
In short, our kind of furniture.
We opt out of the cup holders (too long a sofa for the room). Go for the couch that reclines two, and a love seat that can take one long person, sprawled and sleeping.
And then, I sit on the matching chair.
I announce: “Oh my God. We are taking the chair.”
DH and #2 son shrug and go look at televisions.
When we get home and get #1 son out of the basement (where he is sensibly hiding from the tornadoes that are all around us, as we drive home from the furniture store) he is mostly interested in the idea that all the people on television are going back to flesh tone, after all these years.
We wait, several weeks.
The furniture comes.
#1 son sits in the chair. He insists that he is never getting up again.
I say, oh yes he is. This is my chair.
#2 son sits in it, puts it into full recline, and groans.
Get out of my chair.
My mother in law visits. She insists that she will be taking it home with her.
Oh no you aren’t.
But I am no longer able to keep up with my work. If I do not stay in the office, all day and most of the evening, I will lose my willpower to the comfy chair and never finish the book (about 19th century England, where there strangely enough, there were no England brand recliners).
But if I go to take a short break in the living room, the chair grabs me, and will not let go. I spend the rest of the evening trying to find rock and un-recline into a position where the TV remote will hit the satellite box, flapping my hands trying to reach the Coke Zero, which is a mile away, on the other side of the enormous pillow padded arms.
But if I stand up, someone will get my chair.
My chair. The comfy chair.
It calls to me, but I dare not answer.