Nature morte aux trois vases de fleurs, Osias Beert the Elder
30,699, Sweet Taboo. I need a larger desk. I think Levi has a touch of mountain lion in him. He loves flopping high, on the bed, on the dining room table, or spread, all fifteen, possibly sixteen pounds of him, across a significant portion of my writing desk. He likes to lay his head on the keyboard, or he’ll have his fat rump up against the edge of the screen and his tail stretched across qwertyuiop. This morning I worked with the Mac in my lap. Sometimes he sprawls on the living room carpet or the kitchen floor in that lazy regality cats have. I’m sure those great big amber eyes of his are picturing miles of savannah instead of northern cherry wood veneer. I really need a larger desk.
Chapter 9 is lurching forward, but I’m not happy with the words. I’m in the valley of two novels, staring at the lay of the land, its dales and ravines. A feeling came over me this morning–a sense of urgency and elation, an inchoate desire to get on with it. I’m thinking I need to let Sweet Taboo alone for a bit and throw myself into finishing the revision of Loose Daddy, composing the query package, and starting the novel on its way through the agent list I’ve compiled. That novel is ready to start knocking on doors and I ought to stop poking at it.
Oh the horror–the synopsis demon lies in wait.