Today is the last day of November. How did that happen? November can’t be over. All of the things that have to get done before Christmas aren’t.
I do have the Christmas photo done. But my Christmas letter sucks. I have three decent paragraphs in the whole letter. I’ve been waiting for the beautiful muse of writerly inspiration—her name is Calliope. I think she's visiting Steven King. So the only Greek available to help me was Medusa—and she turned my prose into stone.
I haven’t bought Christmas presents for anyone. My daughter is almost done with her Christmas shopping. Even my husband is done with his shopping—though that hardly counts—he buys one gift, mine. And I buy the gifts for everyone else.
Now before you remind me that there are twenty-five days left until Christmas, I have to tell you that we have three surgeries before X-mas. My mom’s, my son’s, and my daughter’s. And don’t forget the pre-op visits. So my days are limited.
And even worse, I promised my kids that I’d have the first draft of my sequel to Screwing Up Time ready to be read by X-mas break. Break starts next week Friday and I’m only halfway. Plus, I’m not one of those writers who can work for 48 hours straight, surviving on coffee, Red Bull, and M&Ms. I’m usually drooling after I finish editing one chapter. (I think this makes me really bad, but I’m figuring that I can edit while I do my motherly post-operative comforting.)
Oh, well, time to pour some brandy on the fruitcake. And spike the eggnog.