Wake up. Feed cats, dog and goldfish. Need extra coffee because daughter refused to sleep in her bed last night. She is terrified of the ghost of Carl Switzer.
Me: Who the hell is Carl Switzer?
Google it. Discover that this is Carl Switzer.
Not sure how this happened. Reassure her Alfalfa is not lurking in her closet.
UPDATE: Daughter tells me that “now his mom is starting to freak me out too.”
No luck Googling his mother. Pray this will pass.
Off to work!
Must write something or nothing to blog about later. Finish elaborate outline with arrows, bullet points and multicolored fonts. Try to decipher my own fragmentary scribbles from notebook. What does “free him using the fire” even mean?
Progress on secondary characters. One is *funny and charming*, the other mute. Must make sure he has soulful, expressive eyes. Secret code?
Only noon and already surpassed allotted amount of Nicorette. Not good.
Become whirlwind of energy and put together my first author newsletter. Hit send and realize I’ve left all the boilerplate from Mailchimp dangling at the bottom. Hope no one actually reads that far.
Spend the next several hours tracking opens and clicks. Is 9% good or bad? No idea.
Open long-awaited reimbursement check from Blue Cross, after spending nearly $1,000 on speech therapy for daughter. It is for $8. Blue Cross are fuckers.
Wonder if I shouldn’t dig out that half-finished manuscript about teenage assassins. Too many f-bombs? The kids won’t care, but I’d probably be banned from school book fairs. Wonder how Andrew Smith got away with Grasshopper Jungle?
A: Because he is a fucking genius.
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