Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. (James A. Baldwin)

Ohhhhhh, Monday, Monday, Monday. Its one o’clock, my dog stinks like shit, and I’m just getting to my desk. I hear a lot of professional writers talk about scheduling and making time to write, like the same time everyday, preferably in the morning. Not to be rude or anything, but I’d like to know how many of these people are farmers. This morning I got up, ate, did laundry, went to the farm, weeded the garden, mowed Gram’s acre of lawn while getting bombarded by dog-pecker gnats, charged the cattle backrubbers with highly toxic chemicals while flies and gnats attempted to fly into any orifice I had exposed and several I did not (while the ram tried to either head butt me or fuck me, I’m not sure which and no, I’m not in heat), came home, showered to get the shit off me, worked out, cleaned up again, finished the laundry, just ate lunch at my desk and can finally get around to writing my scene instead of just thinking about it.

And so far, this week looks like today and sometime after Thursday are the only days I’ll have any time during the day to write. Unless I make time at night. Which puts me to bed around midnight, up again around six or seven… and I’m definitely not one of those people who prides themselves on how little sleep they can function on. Been there, done that. That life is so over (thank god!) So the challenge remains for me, as for many writers, how to make time for writing when doing two jobs. Believe me, I can go into great detail about why I can’t, but I prefer to focus on what I can.

On a completely different note, I still can’t eat orange sherbet. Why? You ask. I’ll tell you. My dad’s long-time, live-in girlfriend used to freeze things in old containers. Especially plastic ice cream containers. One night, I came home, went to the freezer, and took out a container of orange sherbet. At the time, I did not know of her penchant for freezing things in old containers. And, in the dark, I set to eating sherbet straight out of the carton, as I was the only one in the house who ate ice cream (just to clarify for anyone out there who would say that I learned my lesson). Upon placing the expected orange delight on my tongue, I found, to my shock and dismay, that it was not orange sherbet, but in fact frozen nacho cheese dip. I spat it into the sink, drank water with my head beneath the faucet, and generally acted like my friend Brad when Gary… well, that’s a whole other story and not for the faint of heart or the easily disgusted. So I’ll leave that one till later and leave it at the fact that I can no longer eat orange sherbet. But this raspberry sure tastes great! :-)