Little Miss Muse is steaming.
As in light her entire bottle rocket collection on fire and take aim at my head level of ticked off.
She’s rip-roaring and ready to go on the work in progress (WIP), and I’m telling her to cool it.
Because I need to double-check that the CIRCUS tent flaps are tightly secured (after I throw in three more fire extinguishers so the clowns and unicycling poodles can put out their own fires).
And I need a clean slate to work with.
This requires a whole lotta clickin’ and not a whole lotta new words on the WIP.
I need to give the website a long overdue refresh/revamp/redo.
All of our stuff shows up now. Paperbacks and ebooks. (Whenever possible, buy direct from your favorite authors from their websites. They’ll appreciate it, I swear…)
We (Little Miss Muse and I) had new headshots to put up. She’s grown. And I’ve... Well, let’s just say I’ve done whatever it is middle-aged-ish women do.
“I don’t think you needed to do any of those things. I think you’re Pro. Crast. In. Ating.” She twirls her amethyst-bedazzled Zippo lighter in her chonky fingers.
I hate it when she chunks big words into tiny syllables.
“I don’t think you understand Pub. Lish. Ing. These things are needed.” I don’t dare tell her she’s most likely right. She’s got an enormous ego as it is. I am self-aware enough to know when I’m dabbling at writing-adjacent tasks instead of, well, writing.
“I saw what you wrote there. Just now.”
She’s over my shoulder. Again. I try to shoo her away; I don’t need her help with this particular post.
“You aren’t dabbling, Beth. You’ve pitched a tent down inside a rabbit hole.” The flame from her lighter threatens to singe the hair on the back of my neck. “Deep, deep down in the rabbit hole.”
“If I give you bubble gum, will you go away? For two hours? Two hours and we’ll get back to the WIP.”
“Promise?” She kills the flame and tilts her head at me, unruly curls in all directions.
“Promise.”
She side-eyes me. “If we aren’t clickin’ away at the WIP in two hours, I’m gonna make Trudi sit on your head.”
Fair enough. I toss grape gum in her direction and she flutters off, probably to torment a cat or three.
Dabbling, procrastination, or tent-pitching aside, I do feel there’s a method to the madness for the first time in a long time.
I can sense Little Miss and I will be spending a good amount of one-on-one time together in the coming weeks, pounding out measurable word counts rather than the dribs and drabs of the last few months.
So short and sweet this week while I refresh Pub. Lish. Ingy-stuff.
Feel free to bop around the site. Check out the bookstore (still a WIP itself, but getting there) and the “Meet Little Miss Muse” section. Trudi the Office Goose informs me she would like a landing page. I promise her that once she’s done organizing our marketing campaign, we’ll get right on it. As it stands, or rather, as she stands, she can’t be moved for a photo shoot just yet—quite literally, she’s cast in concrete.
I’ve ordered a scooter for her so I can roll her for the occasional new perspective without putting Back Guy on speed dial—a thrown disc would surely put a hamper on the planned WIP clickin’.
