What I want to know is this: Why didn't it happen closer to 5:00 p.m. so I could have just gone home. Now I'm exhausted and sweaty and stuck here for ten more minutes and wondering, after seeing what it's like out there, how the hell I'm going to get a cab home.
Sigh...I guess I'll be walking. So much for working on my novel tonight.
Ha. As if I could do that with the kids having band practice tonight.
Oh well. Maybe I'll wear headphones and use the laptop upstairs. I'm still pathetic with the laptop. I can't get used to not using a mouse, and the keyboard is for people with tiny fingers.
Okay, okay, I'll make notes in longhand in a composition book. That's the way I always used to write, anyway. There's something satisfying about that, too. Well, if you're warped like me there is.
Because I realize, after looking over the first installment of my novel, that I am desperately in need of dialogue. That's the trouble with writing non fiction - you forget about stuff like that.
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