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My Writing Mind — Week Two
Monday. My office space in our house does not have a door. Just an open doorway to the rest of my house where various humans and dogs march in and out, their feet and paws unhindered and unimpeded. I decide to make a door, and double-purpose my giant whiteboard on wheels to block the entry point while I am writing. The white board is covered in colored index cards, scenes from my current book project, some ordered and numbered, some hanging in empty space awaiting placement. It is eerily similar to the hidden lair of a serial killer. I am studying my thoughts on paper when the husband’s head pops over my new quasi door. “Oh, you’re writing,” he says. I nod without looking at him. “Do you know where the dill spice is?” he asks. “I haven’t seen it since I used it last weekend.” I look at him, grateful that he cooks, but still wanting to murder him. “I’m not helping you find dill.” I want to say a different d-word.
Tuesday. My daughter is thirteen. She is also a writer. She pumps out multiple stories on fanfiction.net and has serious internet traffic from people who want to continue reading her story about Peter Parker being accused of murder and Tony Stark coming to his legal rescue. I try to not be jealous of her success, but she has more views online this week than I do. I wonder if I can poach her followers by genetic misrepresentation. Sometimes I am a great supporter of all her hopes and…
