If a writer writes in an empty house, does the sound of her head slamming the keyboard make a sound?

If a writer writes in an empty house, does the sound of her head slamming the keyboard make a sound?

Today was the first day in over TWO weeks that I was all alone in my house.  Not one person was home sick.  Except me, of course, and that doesn’t count because I am the mom and we don’t get sick days.  So, I did what I knew I had to do.  I gorged myself on forbidden food, drank too much coffee and fought it out with the Office Assistant.  Oh, yes, we had our words.  Okay, mainly they were my words and most of them unfit for publication.

To say the least, my mood was horrific– much resembling a baby who realizes the smell making his eyes water is coming from his own diaper.  Oh, I was in a poopy diaper mood for sure.  But why?  I had the house to myself.  To. Myself.  I was on a roll with my book.  I had things going my way.  But I was hurting over something that I couldn’t place my finger on.  Angry at anything that moved a few choice things that didn’t. (Hello, Lego that jammed into the arch of my foot.  I am talking to you!) I was lonely, but the last thing I wanted to do was to talk to anyone.  I mean, conversation?  I was so not going to do small talk with anyone.  Unless of course you are a bill collector and then I could tell you all about your questionable parentage in words that would make you cry.  Oh and for the love of all things sleep deprived, I was tired.  Bone tired.  Trying to get over the flu tired. The kind of tired that makes you ask “Are you SURE there is not a newborn in this house somewhere because I am demented and definitely have crazy eyes!”

In other words, it’s that time of year again.  Every damn year this happens and every damn year it takes me by surprise.  (See?  Addicts can be forgetful and face it, we have probably lost a lot of brain cells.) So I did what any responsible writer would do in these circumstances. I wrote.  I deleted.  I wrote. I deleted. I drank coffee.  I wrote.  I actually liked that sentence and didn’t delete it. Then drank more coffee.

By then the whole routine had me worn out.  And I heard it.  Silence.  Not one person asking me for anything.  Except in the distance, there was this slightly eager voice calling out “Come to me. I bring you peace, harmony and comfort.” It was my bed.  (No, I was not on anything.  Doesn’t your bed call to you when you are so freaking sleep deprived you can hardly stand upright?)

Again with the need to be responsible, I ran with open arms to my bed and jumped in.  I love you!  I love you!  I chanted. Then promptly fell asleep until it was time to pick up the kids. 

Of course, I woke up with the intense desire to hurt anyone who spoke to me.  That usually does not bode well when you have a school function that night.  It was Reading Night and you could wear your pajamas.  So I threw on some sweats and grabbed my kids and went and had stories read to me.  Nice change. 

But still, not so fond of this time of year.  So if I get all up in your kool-aid in a bitchy way, tell me to back off and go pound on my keyboard.  I may bite you, but I won’t be saying anything mean.  And if I do, bite me back.


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