It is really very difficult to get into the writing process when the dog won't shut up. He's got this thing about wanting to mutilate the Amazon driver, the mailperson, and anyone who walks across the lawn, and yes, that includes every bird. He's a mess, but I do love the guy. My daughter and I were just hanging out one day when I heard her oohing and awwwing from her room. She does that. She's an oooher. Anyway, so she's over there dying about something, and then she bounces into my room demanding that I drive her about 20 miles so she can pick up her new dog. What? What new dog? Do we really need another one? I mean, we had two.
Hugo was about 8 weeks old or so, and he'd been dumped. People who dump dogs have a very very special place in Hell as far as I'm concerned. I'm not Jesus, but I think He may agree. Anyway, Hugo was an unnamed mutt but he had very specific traits and features that told the world his parents were predominantly large, black and tan, and most likely of the German Shepherd and Rottweiler sort. He's adorable. He only has one ear, and that may be why he was dumped. Who knows. We took him home with us; the foster parents were happy.
Now, when I sit to write he decides to sound off. He's either pestering one or the other of the dogs we have, or he's messing around chasing one of the cats. He's up in the window bellowing, and now at 6 months old, he has the voice of his commanding parents. He's loud, he's strong, he's forceful. He's not alone in his means of keeping my mind from writing. There are other daily distractions as well. I can't fully sit down to write out three or four chapters when I know I have laundry to do. I can't just pop the clothes in the washer and be done with it, I have to carry them a good distance to the laundry room in our complex. I then wait 40 minutes, setting the timer, and I return to put the clothes in the dryer for 45 minutes. It's such a first-world issue, but it's still a bother.
Today, I'm about to study the ins and outs of psychosis and bipolar disorders and compare them with schizophrenia because one of my characters has a dual diagnosis. Since the book takes place in 1930 I can't use the more modern terms or treatments. I have to do my due diligence and find out what he would have endured as a patient if he was ever caught and subjected to treatment. He may not be caught, he may just discuss it with his clinician and his behavior and outbursts then become a part of the brackish fabric of whatever he considers to be his life.
That's my life today. I'm studying, reading, thinking, writing, working, cleaning, pounding on the dog a few times, and rescuing a cat or two. In other words, today is a very normal and typical day. I look forward to getting started on the three chapters I've planned to write, but to be honest, I can't do anything until I get the bad grape juice and soured yogurt out of the frig, and retrieve my laundry. I can't fold it right away, as I have dogs. They like to lay on it first, to be sure it doesn't attack me I suppose. Such good dogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment