That was me, this week.
There I was, all inspired for my "quickie" in the brewery (Menage A Brew--no lie) when out of the clear blue sky Hans, the impeccably dressed and uber hot Muse tackled me, rolled me around on the floor a few times (can't say as how I discourage this) and plunked me in front of a couple of reviews from my latest series: Turkish Delights from Decadent Publishing.
See, in that series, tragedy is one of the central story lines. The tragic loss of a beloved family member, friend, lover, sets in motion a lot of action that might otherwise not have happened.
But what was this? The reviews and some readers were starting to call out for...a closure. An answer to the question-:
"What about Tarkan?"
I joke a lot about my "process." It's one of my favorite interview questions. So, Author Liz Crowe, how do you write? By the seat of your pants? From an outline? during certain parts of the day?
Ha! I say....let's see...since about 10 a.m. on Sunday, hungover from too much food, booze and football (Go Blue!) I opened up a blank document and wrote. I peeled myself away from it after three hours and threw some food at the people in my house (who ARE they anyway and WHY are they so needy?). After another three, I had about 8,000 words to show for Hans' recent molestation (again NOT complaining) and those same people were all grumbling about a soccer game I'd missed or something. Then, I looked up to see it was 8 p.m. the kitchen was a tip (not a new thing), dogs needed walking and the DH was eyeballing me funny.
"It's happened again hasn't it?"
I blink. Grab a beer and rush back to the computer. He sighs.
By midnight there were nearly 11,000 words done and I dreamed all night about the rest.
Monday: Up by 5 a.m., coffeed up, lunches made and dogs walked. I write.
7:30 I wave bye-bye to whomever it is leaving and making me cold when they open the door.
noon: a growling stomach reminds me I haven't eaten in about 24 hours.
2 p.m.: I rush around and grab snacks for those short people who live with me, pick one up and toss her at the soccer carpool, dash into Kroger to get enough food for the next 24 hour period. Get home, put it away, throw together something resembling dinner so I can't be accused of not doing my day job, and write.
Midnight: "Um, honey..." DH taps me lightly then steps back, realizing the danger.
Me: grunts....drinks last of the DogFishHead 90 Minute Ipa....four-pack. (this is a Big Beer and by that I mean 9%) "I'm done."
Falls into bed. 35,000 words done, off to CP.
And for those you who care....He is Alive.
But it's not as simple as that....
When I go into the writing cave...I go deep. And cannot emerge until the deed is done. It's a failing, I know.
I love writing.
what's your favorite thing about our life?