C'est la vie. Translates to Life is Bumpy.
Laziness isn't my problem. Life is. Not a problem of course, just the real reason I'm behind. I have mentioned before that I write when hubby is napping. I can only expect to have productive writing time versus "interrupted time and ending up crabby because I tried to write" time.
My motivation to write a book was all about him and his stories from police work. We, the family, have heard his stories over and over, to the point we can jump in and finish his sentences. (I'm also well practiced in diverting him when he launches into describing, during holiday dinners with extended family, a murder scene.) So my goal is to honor those memories by weaving them into a fictional story.
Last week: only 15 minutes of writing.
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