Eccentric? Don't you believe them!

No picture for tonight's post. But I promise that tomorrow I will put up a picture of my blower and my chainsaw. I made mention of that about 2 weeks ago and I did get my digital camera working again thanks to the Energizer Bunny (thank you, Bunny) and tomorrow is the day. And crap,

Oh, so here's the story. I realized today that I am wearing the same outfit that I had on four days ago. Why is this you ask? Because I'm in my writer mode. And it goes something like this. You wake up and realize you need to get to your computer RIGHT away because time is wasting away. So, you drag out of bed, which in my case is difficult since I have a bad back.

But wait, you must brush your teeth. You have a Sonosomethingorother, so you go into the bathroom and run that across your teeth for about 10 seconds, because, as I said, time is wasting away and tooth decay is no excuse for bad literature.

But wait! You need clothes. Looking through drawers, ironing, pulling out something new takes time and you have no time because time is wasting away, as I told you before, and it is quite possible that you might die before you finish the next novel, so you pick up the clothes you wore yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and the day before that, and you take a quick sniff.

If they smell a little odd, you spray some lavender and vanilla scented oil on them because, really, no one is going to notice if you stink, because, after all, you are a WRITER. You don't go anywhere. Ok, you go out for food once a week. But you certainly don't visit friends. You don't attend "social" functions where you're required to look good and I'd place bets that you don't really give a rip what you look like. In fact, you don't put on makeup, and you don't brush your hair.

These all take time. Precious minutes that are ticking away as your body slowly (or quickly) dies and you are racing the clock of death because that next novel is calling to you like you're some kind of junkie and it's your fix. Such is the life of a writer.

And they call us eccentric. Well, I'm here to tell you that we are NOT eccentric. We're just nuts. And if you look through the history of writers over the decades and perhaps centuries of modern literature (or perhaps old literature which is now rotting in some ancient library or collector's home), you will notice that most writers died of alcoholism or perhaps insanity and if they were really lucky, they just got hit by a truck.

I really don't know anyone who got hit by a truck but I often feel like I'm being hit by a truck as I write my novels because half the time I don't know what I'm doing, which is why writers drink or eat chocolate.

Ok, so, tomorrow I bring out the pictures of the blower and the chainsaw and tell their stories. I don't think they're novel worthy, but they certainly are interesting. And tomorrow I promise that I will take a shower, spend 2 minutes brushing my teeth, and I WILL change my clothes. Unless I'm in a rush.