I'm supposed to be blogging.
I guess I could spare the minutes I've been using to endlessly check the website of the agent who has my manuscript. She hasn't updated it in two weeks. I'm worried she's onto me and is tracking me down through my IP address. It's my greatest fear that the Agent Stalker Police will show up on my doorstep and hit me in the face with my manuscript.
At least then I'd know if she liked it.
Or maybe I could stop reading all the advice on agent/editor/blogger/author/publisher blogs about how to write a query letter, write a synopsis, get an agent, create a tight plot, write the next bestseller. And about how I should be blogging.
Then there's always the possibility that I could stop being ungrateful and claim the joy that is part of every day when you do what you are created to do. Maybe I should rejoice that I have fingers to type, eyes to read and ears to hear music that inspires me. (Although I don't know how long my ears are going to last if I don't start checking the volume on iTunes before putting in my ear buds and clicking play.)
My point is, this blog is supposed to be about my writing journey. And by default, occasionally about my naked/whiny children.
So I'm off...as soon as I find The Spider Monkey's pants.