I come home from work on a Friday afternoon and look forward to just relaxing in my living room with a big mug of chamomile tea and some evil, crunchy tostidos and I see the big mess. Someone let our dog, Buddy, into the house with a piece of tree and he demolished it on the living room floor. Shards of bark and wood litter the sitting area like wood chips litter a woodpile. Yes.
He looks so sweet, doesn't he? Life would be simpler and cleaner without a dog. But who wants a simple, clean life? Not a writer, that's for sure. Writers love chaos and messiness and the unpredictable. We thrive on it. Okay, maybe I'm just speaking for myself.
It seems like my book will never be out and so I'm starting to feel a bit destructive like Buddy, my dog, only instead of chewing wood and spitting it out, I'm chewing words and leaving them in disarray all over the place.