Dragging myself out of the muck and mire that is my nightly six hours of sleep, I realize I’m traipsing nightmare all over the carpet. Nothing too foul, in fact it’s pretty ordinary crap I’ve got clinging to my extremities, but the gop and the goo are still there, slowing my stride down to an upright crawl.
*Squish… squish… squish…”
Great. Even my fingers are covered with the syrupy slime of spent bad dreams this morning. This stuff is hell to get off of a keyboard. *sighs* I know how I’ll be spending a good chunk of my day.
Frank is not helping, by the way.
My specter of imminent failure is scowling at me with a decided look of disgust from his end of the couch. (Yes, I have deeded over ownership of the westernmost cushion and sofa arm to the charmless creep. If he’s going to be living here, I sure as heck am not paying the taxes on wear he plops his ever-expanding ass. *lol*)
The specter at my right is not amused… which, of course, amuses me tremendously. It’s a very Bizarro quid-pro-quo world around here sometimes. (I suggest never visiting.)
Well, despite the molasses-like gunk I’ve got hanging off of all the pointy ends of my soul this morning, I do have work to do.
Book Two of “The Lion and the Steed” series needs to be attended to today. Even if its sibling Writhe is stuck in limbo land it seems, Book Two needs to get on with its own life. Carve a place of its own in the vast literary plain. Find its own niche to crawl into and grow.
Once I get this gunk off of my fingers I might even give the little guy a hand. Wouldn’t that be novel?
Get it? “Novel”? And I’m writing a novel, so… Oh, never mind. I’ve got a vat of lye to go jump into.