( Photo credit: Kelly Colgan Azar via Foter.com / CC BY-ND )
We have a pair of foxes that wander in and around our development. I’ve seen them nearby recently, but not in the back yard lately, and not this close. Of course, I have been putting in some extra hours at the day-job this week. Probably next week, too. But I have still been getting in ‘book time’. Maybe not much, but still writing daily as I plan to do all year. And working on revising the first shifter. I’ll be working on that all day tomorrow. Today was more overtime at the day-job, though, so not as much writing work as I would have liked. But I’ll make up for it. Also on my schedule for tomorrow: figuring out if I’m all set for the big Valentine’s Day booksigning next month.
I found an interesting new-to-me show: River. The detective who is the main character talks to people who aren’t actually there, and he’s trying to figure out who murdered his partner. Interesting story, but it looks like there was only one season, so I’m afraid I’ll be sad when this one comes to an end. Tonight, though, I’m sneaking in one more viewing of Love Actually. Yes, I know I watched it about ten times last month. but it always makes me feel better, and with some of the awful things I’ve been seeing in the news, who doesn’t need to feel better? My husband might be making fun of me, but I don’t care. I love the stories and the characters. I’m one of those people who will recite dialogue along with the characters (which my sons and sometimes my husband really hate–my kids won’t watch Princess Bride, or Robin Hood Men in Tights, or most of the Harry Potter movies with me), and there are whole sections of this that I have to do just that. And of course, I’ll be crying by the end of it, but happy, satisfied crying. Plus all this romance will get my brain into romance-writing mode again for tomorrow.
What do you do to get your mind-set into work-mode? Jog around the block? Take a long, hot shower? Eat chocolate?
And while I’m finishing my inspirational movie viewing, how about a little snippet from Hunting Medusa?
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Silence greeted him, and he took that as a good sign. No creaking came from upstairs, as there would be if she’d wakened. Good. Nevertheless, he stepped inside cautiously, listening hard. He took another step after a few heartbeats, trying to remember just where the kitchen table and chairs stood from his limited view the day before. He made it past the furniture and paused to listen again. Still nothing. He frowned. With the power off, the house was too quiet. Surely the sudden and complete silence would wake her, even if she hadn’t heard the brief noise of the alarm shutting down. He slid one foot forward on the smooth wooden floor, and suddenly she was there. Fiery pain shot up his left arm. He grunted, realized she’d stabbed him deeply. He swung his other hand up, managing to hit her on the side of the head. She cried out but didn’t go down, swinging her blade again. He caught her wrist, but she managed to get another slice to his already-injured forearm before he yanked her arm behind her. Her booted foot connected with his knee—hard—and he bit back a string of curses at the pain, but didn’t let her go. Why wasn’t she barefoot? If she’d been sleeping, she should be barefoot. His left arm was nearly useless, blood pumping steadily from his wounds, so he crowded her up against the nearest surface. The refrigerator. He shoved hard, hearing her moan when he twisted her arm a little more. Her blade hit the floor between them. She kicked backward again, and her foot hit his knee from the other side this time. “Dammit,” he muttered, flattening her between his body and the appliance’s cool metal surface. His arm burned, warm blood dripping from his fingers. “Get off me, you murdering bastard,” she said, her words slurred slightly from her face being mashed into the refrigerator. “Well now, that’s not very nice. Especially since I’ve never murdered anyone. Yet,” he added darkly, tightening his grip on her wrist. The bones in her arm were fragile and he was fully aware he could crush them, render her arm as useless as she had his. But he didn’t. He wasn’t Stavros. “You’re not going to start with me, either, Harvester.”
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So, back to inspiration–how do you get yourself inspired?