I can cop to the fact that I have a habit of disappearing. Not going anywhere for real, just sequestering myself in my cave. When I’m in the middle of an unfinished story, my cave is the textured glass patio table on my back deck. It’s warm enough in California that I get to write outside for most of the year. In the mornings, it’s Lady Grey. In the afternoons, I drink decaf. In the evenings, it’s (clearly) wine.
But the cave is a harsh place. I don’t feel quite human while I’m in it, and when I emerge, I look like the woman in the picture: I’m bloodied, I’m injured and I’m in yesterday’s clothes, but hey, at least I’ve still got nice boobs :)Read More