The biggest mystery in my manuscript this morning is what ever made me think I could do this for a living?
The characters are feeling particularly peevish and one-dimensional, the computer is acting up and the dog is snoring so loudly as to make me hope every rattled breath is her last.
I'm still wearing the same sweat pants and t-shirt in which I slept. It's a self-imprisonment effort to prevent any spontaneous errands or lunch dates.
Even the threat of doing housework can't seem to stir the muse, who is apparently out colder than the dog.
Browsing the internet I've found several possible solutions in a floor lamp that emits energizing daylight, a Moleskine purse journal and several new CDs.
Unfortunately, I made a fool's deal with myself not to touch the American Express card until this chapter is complete.
Although I can't remember the reasons, which I assure you were quite valid at the moment, I've already snapped at both of my daughters. They've taken refuge upstairs. The dog and her snoring symphony have not.
I'm not sure exactly how to place the "Breathe Right" strips on a Labrador's nose. A blast of my husband's snore spray made her sneeze and stop for almost 10 seconds. At this rate, I'd need a tanker truck of the stuff.
If I take a shower it will mean clean clothing, which will lead to going out the the mailbox and facing natural sunlight. Next thing you know I'll be out for lunch and will forget I am frustrated and miserable.
It's a slippery slope and my foot is on the banana peel.