(I was told last night by the husband that I needed to update my blog. He doesn’t seem to understand that all my brain cells are going to the many stories I’m working on, but to make him happy, here I am, because my goal in life is to please him, heh!)
So, I have this new morning routine. I’ve said before that my perfect routine would be to roll from the bed into the manuscript, brain fired up from a night of sleep and creativity unencumbered by distractions such as Twitter and email. In a perfect world, that’s exactly what I’d do. But my LOOK! SHINY! affliction doesn’t cooperate, so I find it easier to get my writing loop digests read (and they’re all are on digest; I could never deal with the individual email madness) and any overnight emails answered (since I’m on CDT and my agent and writing buds are mostly not, meaning early morning gossip goodness) and do all that while I’m drinking my TWO cups of coffee and the husband is getting ready to abandon me for the day. ;) Lately I’m only getting in a single cup because these guys are whining at my feet the minute I stir in the bed.
When the weather cooled off toward the end of September, I enjoyed heading out in the mornings to walk, knowing the window of beautifully sunny and brisk mornings was a tease and would not last. Somehow the dogs nosed in on my fun and my routine became their routine. In the past, #1 daughter would walk them when she got home from work. She didn’t mind heading out in the dark because, well, they have big teeth and loud growling barks, and the dark was the only time of day being outside was bearable. Me? I don’t see in the dark. And I’m anti-sweat, so daytime walks were out. 90% humidity at seven a.m. is not my idea of the way to start the day.
Oh, the posturing and whining and nipping and stretching that goes on. I had barely grabbed my glasses and put my feet on the floor this morning before they were there: ISITTIMEISITTIMEISITTIME all in doggy whine. And the fact that cool weather has again abandoned us does not make me want to get up and get going any faster.
What is prompting me to the trails is that I downloaded and am listening to my first audio book: Stephen King’s ON WRITING.
I’ve said many times that I am a writer, not a storyteller. I am deliberate, analytical. I can’t rattle off a tale or relate something that happened in an entertaining sort of way. I’m great with the snarky comments, and can always get in a good dig, but I cannot verbally tell a story.
Stephen King can. And I’m not talking about his novels. Listening to him read this book, to him telling stories of his childhood, is like sitting around the proverbial campfire and enjoying the best sort of storyteller. I have never read this book, though it’s been on my shelf forever, and now I’m glad that I waited the ten years it’s been out because I wouldn’t want to experience it any other way.
I have laughed out loud, literally, while tugging Snickers away from culverts where she is certain small animals are lurking, and insisting that Takumi does not need to sniff every other dog’s leavings. The forty minutes or so it takes us to lap the park two times passes so fast, and I don’t even notice the sweat dripping into my eyes until I can’t see to drive home. Seriously, you don’t even have to be a writer to enjoy listening to King describe his childhood. But if you are a writer, I can’t think of any recording so inspiring.