And I forgot to write my blog. Here I am now pounding the keys, nonsensically, posting about four hours late. Sorry readers. So I feel like the Mad Hatter even though I know nothing about making hats. Mostly, he was looney from too many chemicals in the process. I'm looney from too little sleep, too little writing time and too little exercise. But I do have my first grandchild so what more can I say?
With my daughter-in-law now able to do most things for herself, my life should even out and I can write again. How about I leave you with the first few paragraphs of my current novel in progress? Maybe I'll get inspired to get back at it whenever I can.
Phoebe awakened sudden and breathless. Not slow like when the sheet tangled around her legs or when she needed a trip to the toilet in the gray fog of near-sleep. What noise had she heard that now wasn’t there? Her bird, Perry, rustled in his cage. She held her breath and listened, her heart hammering her ribcage. Her budgie rustled again.
Her covers slid away as she swung her legs to sit and slipped her feet into the fuzzy flip-flop house shoes. Damn. Two nights in a row.
Hesitating, her toes clinching and stretching, clinching and stretching against the terry cloth, she closed her eyes to listen again. The pulse in her ears rang. She swallowed and concentrated harder.
Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.
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She blogs on the 9th and 24th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com
She blogs about prairie life and writing at http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/