…at a time.
I slept in til 5:15 this morning—a strange thing, but welcome. It is, after all, Saturday. Spousal Unit works Saturday mornings, you see.
Being up, I had my coffee and read again the chapter from 1 Samuel that I’ll be teaching on tomorrow morning. Buzzed through my social media and email. And then…
It was time to write!
Typing away, happily ensconced in Ireland, on the shore of Lough nEathach, I was working until there was the rhythmic pounding of feet on the stairs.
Yep, Offspring the Younger was up.
So he’s sitting with me, now, and we’ve discussed Super Mario brothers, how a medieval grain mill on the river works, and how to pronounce Tuirgeis (TOO-ihr gayce). While we do this, I type out a sentence that looks like this:
“It’s not as deep as the one from Ragor,” Aislinn had confided in him when he had been preparing for the invasion.
And I’m typing this blog post.
And thinking very hard about breakfast.
Because if writing is important? You work at it constantly, at the keyboard and otherwise. As a mom with a young, special-needs child, I can’t always clear the decks to work when the story is in my head. I have to type out sentences when I can.
One. Word. At. A. Time.