Unfave ways to start the day, #629

Bathing smelly dog.

At least it wasn't full immersion. Oneside of neck and shoulder, which was all he was able to push into the pile of crap before I stopped him.

And collar. Will need to wash the collar.

Unfave ways to start the day, #629

Bathing smelly dog.

At least it wasn't full immersion. Oneside of neck and shoulder, which was all he was able to push into the pile of crap before I stopped him.

And collar. Will need to wash the collar.

The road to hell and good intentions

One week to go in the 70 Days of Sweat program, and, well, after all the bally-hoo...not much wordage to show. Was it a waste of time? No. I rethought the beginning of the wip several times, and think that now I have the makings of a decent opening in which something happens within the first few pages. Other plot drivers knocked on the door and made themselves at home, and I'm not sure I'd have thought of them if the guilt over lack of word production hadn't spurred me to thinking.

I hate to think that I require true panic in order to write. It doesn't bode well, it really doesn't. It also doesn't make sense. I cleaned off my desk yesterday, and uncovered a stack of magazine articles I had set aside for research. Local crimes. Industrial espionage. Gene therapy gone wrong. Maybe my interests fall into certain set categories, but they're my interests and I like them and working them into stories is the best thing in the world. And there are new stories there to be mined, but first I need to finish this one.

1 December. D-Day. That will be, I am afraid, the only date that will spur me onward. So, here it is.

The road to hell and good intentions

One week to go in the 70 Days of Sweat program, and, well, after all the bally-hoo...not much wordage to show. Was it a waste of time? No. I rethought the beginning of the wip several times, and think that now I have the makings of a decent opening in which something happens within the first few pages. Other plot drivers knocked on the door and made themselves at home, and I'm not sure I'd have thought of them if the guilt over lack of word production hadn't spurred me to thinking.

I hate to think that I require true panic in order to write. It doesn't bode well, it really doesn't. It also doesn't make sense. I cleaned off my desk yesterday, and uncovered a stack of magazine articles I had set aside for research. Local crimes. Industrial espionage. Gene therapy gone wrong. Maybe my interests fall into certain set categories, but they're my interests and I like them and working them into stories is the best thing in the world. And there are new stories there to be mined, but first I need to finish this one.

1 December. D-Day. That will be, I am afraid, the only date that will spur me onward. So, here it is.