I am sooooo close to being done with Taking Chase I can taste it. I always hit this point at the end of every book when I feel simultaneously anxious to be done and a bit sad it’s over. I’ll be sending it out to beta by the end of the weekend and getting it to Angie the magnificent shortly thereafter.
Then I’ve been really thinking about whether to finish up Threat of Darkness (Jayce’s book) or to write Minx and Connor’s book (Deadly Beautiful is my working title). I’m halfway finished with TOD, which makes it the better choice but I can’t get the opening of DB out of my head. We’ll see when I finish up with Taking Chase.
I was reading a magazine earlier where a reader wrote in to complain that all reviews should have a warning if the book is in first person and called for people to write publishers to demand an end to all first person books. Now, I haven’t written a first person book but there are several I quite enjoy. It seems to me that it’s akin to writing to demand no blonde heroines or no horses in books – you read what you like and realize that there are people out there who like what you don’t (heroines who scream every time they orgasm for instance). I can’t get worked up over it, I just don’t read what I don’t like. But I’ve found over my years reading, that if a story is well told, it doesn’t matter what POV is used or if there are horses or race cars or screaming heroines even. It’s a bit disturbing as I realize I’m sort of mellowing in my uh, not middle age.
Today, two of my three children gave me the “what the HELL possessed you to do that?” moments. Firstly, my five year old tied a scarf around himself and then to a bookshelf and ran. Yes. Ran. CRASH!!! I run into the room and he’s still trying to run, like one of those hyper little dogs and I’m yelling at him to stop before he hurts himself and I see that one of my favorite Japanese containers has broken into pieces and it had the roses that my dad gave me when I had my first child in them and my grandmother’s rosary and they were everywhere and I’m so pissed off and scared that he’s hurt himself and he’s STILL running and I’m trying to hold out the 2 year old with a foot and grabbing the other by his shirt and trying to untie the damned scarf as I’m gritting my teeth and crying. Ugh!
And then my two year old walks up, naked as a jaybird and hands me something. Yes, ladies and gents, the contents of the pull up she’d taken off. Sigh. I look up at my husband who’s figured out what it was she’s just handed me and I rush to dispose of the package and hold the child at arms length and toss her into the bath tub.
Honestly! Turds and scarves and I don’t know what the hell the 9 year old has up his sleeve but I shudder to think.