It actually is Tuesday. What the heck happened to Monday? I have a vague recollection of organizing network cables and something about a square peg in a triangular hole, but not much else. And a few words written. Maybe 500 or so. Not the blazing progress that makes me happy, but sort of necessary, when you’re at the stage where something important is about to happen in the story and you know what it is, but you’re not exactly sure why it’s important. That’s the frustating part–knowing its important, but not a clue why that is. And you do need to know. Instinct only goes so far. Working things out on paper makes for progress but not a high word count. If I’m lucky, that’ll come later.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Monday. I’m one of the few people I know who don’t mind Mondays. Mostly because I’m not enamored of the weekend, as so many other folk seem to be. And why should I be? Free time?  Weekends aren’t free time for me in any way, shape, or form.There’s family time. There’s housework and yardwork time. There’s All the Errands You Couldn’t Do During the Week time. My time?  Doesn’t exist. Not complaining, mind.  My priorities are where I’ve set them so I’ve no cause to fuss.  But there are certain realities that must be dealt with.  One is that I almost never get any writing done over the weekend.  Two is that I actually kind of like my day job. I don’t mind getting back to it. So Monday has no horror for me. Tuesday, otoh…

And it is Tuesday.