I Lobster, and Never Flounder

Who sang that song? It’s stupid, but very appropriate for my current situation.

Remember the kids and their fishing obsession? Well, I should say kids #2 and 3 and their fishing obsession (kid #1 is afraid of fish). Well, they wanted to go today. Again. And since it is 4th of July weekend, and Daddy didn’t have to go to work until 3:30 so he could stay home with Son #1, I decided to take them.

Getting ready, I made up three bottles of ice water, heavy on the ice since it was about 90 degrees out, and sprayed the kids down with sunscreen as they ran to the van.

Sprayed the kids down.

Lucky The LobsterThis happens to me about once a summer. The kids get excited and get in a hurry and somewhere between the house and wherever we’re going, I manage to miss myself. I was born a redhead and still get a red suntint. I have some freckles. You do the math.

So tonight I am nursing a sunburn by dousing myself in Solarcain and watching Gone with the Wind. Oh, okay, and flipping back and forth to the Grounded for Life marathon. Come on, it’s a funny show. Funny-ish, anyway.

In other news, I put in a couple hours work on MURDER IN F MINOR last night, and I think my characters are actually evolving into something other than cardboard cutouts. Of course, I have lovely people who actually write books for a living that tell me I am a good writer, and have even had some agents and editors tell me the same thing. But until I sign that first contract, I’m going to consider myself a talentless hack.

Here’s a secret: even when I sign that first contract, I’m going to think of myself as a talentless hack. That’s the kind of girl I am.

I think writers by nature are insecure. Why else would we write? I mean finally here is a world we can create and we can control, right? Until we get about 50 pages or so in and one of our characters pops out with some revelation that we didn’t expect and changes the whole plot. Yes, they do that. And no, it’s not just the voices in my head. Then again…

Then there is the whole I’m never going to be able to make this book long enough thing. Now I have written five books to this point, my first being over 170 thousand words. That is 170 with three zeros behind it. I was a tad long winded. My shortest is just shy of 75 thousand, so why am I worried about making this book long enough? Because — see above, folks — I am an insecure writer. Is there any other kind?

Current word count is right about 10,500, by the way.

And under the heading of Questions that make the CIA, FBI, CBS and William Peterson start taping your phone calls, does soaking a blood-soaked glove in straight bleach degrade DNA? Just wondering.


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