Dreaming Doorbells

I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. Since the weather's been a little off kilter, McCartney hasn't been "played with" as much, and if he doesn't get his play time and exercise in during the day, he gets restless at night. And he barks. It's not a panicked bark. It's not an I-want-something bark. It's an I'm-bored-and-just-like-the-sound-of-my-own-voice bark. Bark. Bark, bark. Bark, bark, bark-bark-bark. You get the idea. At three in the morning, this is not a sound I want to hear.

My usual remedy for this is to go to the top of the stairs (he sleeps in his kennel in the downstairs family room) and tell him to be quiet, or to go back to sleep, or something to the effect of there will be bodily harm done if he doesn't shut up. (No, really, I wouldn't. It's the tone of my voice that gets him to calm down.)

Night before last Sir Barksalot had awakened me with his vocal exercises for about the third time. I finally pushed the door to the basement partially closed - leaving it open a crack so the cats could get down to their little area - and went back to bed. It was somewhere around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. I had just gone back to sleep when I heard the doorbell ring. Now, this is a sound that will get you out of bed at three in the morning. What the heck? Or perhaps the more appropriate question - WHO the heck?

I got up, peeked out the blinds. Didn't see anything. Went to the front door, flipped on the corner flood and porch lights, put my mouth to the crack of the door and hissed, "Who is it?"

The WGH is awake by this point and calls out, "You're dreaming! Come back to bed."

Hmph. Perhaps I was. But I heard that stupid doorbell, clear as ... well, you know.

I apologize for my absence the past couple days. I've been working on book reviews - sent three to our editor Saturday, and as soon as they're uploaded I'll add the links to the right - as well as one of the two author interviews I'm doing for the Spring issue of Spinetingler. Also on the to-do list are to plug agent addresses into my query letter and get them in the mail, submit my short story, write two more book reviews, finish reading the current book of the week and write the review on it, then move on to the next book in the stack. Oh, and I have another movie coming from Netflix that I'll need to watch and review.

Hmmm ... that sounds like plenty to do for a few days, doesn't it?

As I've mentioned previously, Friday is my "free day", when I don't have to work the part-time job and can concentrate more on the writing side of my life. This past Friday afternoon, I made a total of four - FOUR - trips to the high school and back, running The Boy back and forth in preparation for Friday night's basketball game. His reasoning behind asking me to do this? To quote The Boy: "It's not like you have anything better to do."

Oh, son.

Wrong thing to say to Mom.

I asked him to step out of my office for a few minutes while I collected my wits, so as not to lash out and say something I would regret later. After I calmed down I asked him to step back in, and I showed him the better things I had to do.

There are two dry-erase boards in my study: one is plain, about 18 by 24 inches; the other is just a tiny bit smaller and has a calendar on the right two-thirds with the remaining space on the left blank for notes. Right now both boards are covered with writing - deadlines, lists of authors with whom I'm conducting or need to conduct interviews, lists of books I have to read and review.

In the car on the way back up to drop him off at school for pep band (the third trip), I figured it out. Little Bit had asked me once not long ago, "What do you do all day?" Little Bit and The Boy are in the box, just like their father. The Tall One, fortunately, understands what it is I "do all day" - she's more like me than she cares to admit, but will proudly tell anyone who will listen that "my Mom's a writer." The other two, like the WGH, don't quite get it. Yet. They're waiting for me to make a noticeable - if not substantial - sum of money for doing what I'm doing. They want results, something to show for my efforts. They have no idea how hard I'm working, simply because I'm not leaving the house every day any more, going to an office and a job I no longer love. I love my job now - especially the part where I get to shuttle my son back and forth to the school four times in the space of an hour, just because I can. I'm home because two and a half years ago I made a decision to pursue this business. All the kids know is that I'm home now, and they can call their chauffeur any time they need a ride.

It's okay. I love spending time with them, and the way I figure it, if they're in the car with me, they're a captive audience.

Heh-heh.

Excuse me. I have to go answer the doorbell.

Read a book. It's good for you!

=) JB