Here I sit, itching to write number four in the Hetta Coffey Mystery Series. I have a vague idea of the plot, locale, and the need to pen. Cup of coffee in hand, creative juices revved, I begin...and stop. Men with power tools have invaded my space.
Okay, so I shouldn't really complain. After all, they did show, unlike the dishwasher guy, who is the reason I'm trapped at home all day, unable to write because of the tool guys. See a pattern here?
We moved into our beautiful new home a month ago. I have a spectacular view from my office, perfect for writing. We are in the country where it is quiet, or will be, when men with tools go off to wherever they go. For a month, they have been here, except when they don't show up. I've learned, however, to schedule my entire life around total strangers. Wash my hair? Certainly not between six a.m and five p.m. Okay, I say, I'll make the best of it. I'll clean the house, remove the construction dust. Then dirt-mover guy shows up with a huge and raucous machine guaranteed to re-coat the house, inside and out.
So, in my next book, I think I will kill off guys with tools. Blow them to smithereens, annihilate them in a fiery conflagration...or maybe even make them clean my house.
Yep, a whole new plot is emerging, goaded by the muse of revenge. Writing is a wonderful thing.