Blither for a Rainy Evening

I had a big, long post which got eaten by blogger for some odd reason.

Short version - Got talked down from the ledge by mother who reminded me that at the end of the writing of every book, I think that the books is complete drivel, nothing but a jumbled mess, which isn't good for anything other than making paper airplanes with and tossing out the window.

Realization that in this day and age, writers need to do more than just write. We have to become crackerjack marketing managers for ourselves, and to that end, I need to plan to go to a convention/conference in the near future (well, probably next year), so that I can network and make contacts. Since my little guy is getting bigger, I feel better about leaving him with Daddy or Mimmie and Papa for a day or two.

Grateful that my fella doesn't think I'm a nutjob when I stare out a window for endless minutes, playing scenes out in my head and hearing the voices of characters. I look at him to find him grinning and me, and sometimes asking me what scene I see, or sometimes just grinning, because he knows me and I don't have to explain.

I don't understand what he does when he's got an engine apart and he's planning what step happens next with the race car, but I appreciate it. Same with him and my writing. A mutual respect for what the other does, without having to know the mechanics or process of it (which is good, because my eyes would glaze over pretty fast). Though sometimes we might talk about process.

I love him because he's my friend, and we have an incredible mental connection. And he often knows what I want or need before I do, because I'm not likely to ask. I've always done things for myself. But damn, it's nice when somebody can read your mind like that. It really is freakin' awesome.

He knows when I'm cold or hot and will adjust the temp in the truck. He knows if I'm getting thirsty when we're watching a movie and will offer me water. He knows if I find the radio too loud or soft and will adjust the sound. And he knows when I need to just chill. And it'll be at the moment it pops into my head when he'll give me what I need.

It's uncanny, really.

Anyway, he's the only man I've been in a serious relationship with who isn't in competition with the writing. He deserves a damned klondike bar for that:



Anyway, Lee Child is waiting on my bed for me, and he's far too tempting to stay away from any longer. So I'm off.