Flying brain-men and impending doom

You know how, the more you blog, the more you have to blog about, and the less you blog, the harder it is? Well. I feel all floundery. What to blog about? I miss it! I miss the connection with so many people. I miss feeling like this space is an extension of my life in some way. It has been, lately, more like the room in the house that you never go in, the one with the closed door. Oh, don't look in there ..." And not even in a fascinating Bluebeardy way, full of dead wives or anything -- just in a boring way. That room is boring.

Huh. Bluebeard. That reminded me of something. When we first moved into our house, 9 years ago, the girls across the street (kids at the time, now grown up) were putting on a play in their yard, and it was Bluebeard. They had even made "dead wives" on butcher paper, life size, and rigged a closet to hang them in, for the heroine to discover. It was gruesome and awesome.

But anyway. My blog-closet hides no gruesome secrets. Just a lack of TIME. Time time time. There is time on a daily basis for a) Jim and Clementine, and b) writing. Right now, this time falls into "writing." Jim is home with Clementine, and I am at the cafe down the street that is my new writing space. Each morning after breakfast I attire myself in something a small presentability-step above pajamas, and I walk down a gravel road, about four blocks, with an umbrella (because god, Oregon, really. Haven't you heard it's JUNE?), to this very small, very quiet cafe.
And here I sit writing away. By lunchtime my clothes smell like roast coffee, which isn't a great smell, a few hours later. I kept thinking I reeked of cigarettes and couldn't understand why. I mean, obviously no one was smoking in the cafe. I have always had a poor sense of smell. A poor ability to identify smells, anyway. They seem obvious once someone else names them, but until then I'm like, Um, onion? garlic? I don't know. Tastes too. Whatever station in the brain is responsible for that function, my little brain-men aren't manning it well. Or maybe they put the sleepiest guys on that job, I don't know.

What? Don't you have brain-men? They are very very small. Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they aren't there.

There is a heavy concentration of brain-men (and women) around the writing station, though, and they all have their opinions, very very strong opinions, and here's what I think happens. One of them takes the helm and we write an awesome chapter. Then I take a nap, and when I get back to work, there's a different brain-man on duty, and he has all new ideas for that chapter. I am powerless. We end up rewriting. This goes on for a while until I knock my head against the wall and they go flying around like crash-test dummies ...

Um. Sometimes when I'm blogging I really worry you are going to think I am insane. Don't worry. All is well.

So here I am, at my cafe. I have something on the horizon with which I have very little experience. That something is ... a DEADLINE. *gasps in horror* It's a scary word! It even has "dead" in it! Doesn't it just sound sort of "impending doomy"? I sort of had deadlines for the Dreamdark books, and there was one winter, truly, when I did very very little besides write Silksinger. I remember it well.But never before have I had a real firm deadline AND a baby. It is an interesting combination, and explains my poor blog showing of late. Honestly.

Life at its simplest. My wardrobe consists of what is on top. On top of the glider chair, that is, which doesn't get glided in much on account of being my new open-air closet. I still live in nursing tanks, and put a t-shirt over it to leave the house. So glamorous. Mostly I wear black yoga-ish pants, because my jeans are all long and require platform shoes of some sort, and I am less and less that person, though my wardrobe hasn't really caught up to whatever person I am now. Today I wanted to wear jeans though, so I am wearing my black platform boots, and the four gravel blocks to the cafe felt like quite a trudge.
When writing, I wear a silver wishbone pendant Jim gave me for our anniversary. It's kind of a totem. Ponytails are ubiquitous. Showers are not ubiquitous. I mean, that's like 20 minutes of writing! heh heh. Fortunately, I am not a stinky person. Not that I've gone more than a day without a shower. Nooooooo. Heh. Because that would be gross... Ahem.

So you see, my life of glamour. Jim and I did get out for a date the other night, though, and it was marvelous. Funnily enough, we went to see a kid's movie! But honestly, when you live in the rabbit hole and then poke your head out to see what's playing at the movies ... what a bunch of crap right now! So we saw How To Train Your Dragon and holy, it was AWESOME!!!! Have you seen it? Doesn't matter if you have kids or not. It's just great. I even wore a dress out (from the actual closet, and WITHOUT a nursing tank, and then we went out to dinner and had a decadent three-course meal, with house-made pasta, and wine pairings. Wine pairings! And no squiggling wiggler on my lap. Of course, we missed her, and got out the iphone midway through dinner to look at pictures of her . . .
(tee hee.)

But now, time is flashing past, and my brain-men are cranking up the writing station, so I'd better go see what they're up to before they decide on any new ways the last chapter might unfold. (No! Bad brain-men! Onward, only forward!)

:-)