I’ve had a busy summer so far. MG and I are celebrating a big anniversary this year. We’re doing things throughout the year to celebrate. Recently, we spent a week in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, with our sons and their families—all under the same roof in a large house we rented. About ten days ago, we hosted an anniversary brunch to celebrate with family and friends. In the fall, we plan to take a Polynesian Islands cruise. All that planning, travel, and celebrating takes time. Mostly, it takes time away from my writing. That spells trouble with a capital T for me.

When I go too long without writing, I lose my momentum. My creative juices dry up. My enthusiasm flags. Disinterest rears its ugly head. My energy takes a hike. My drive disappears. Hard as I try, I just can’t work up the oomph to drag myself to my office, sit my butt in front of my MacBook Pro, and pick up in my WIP where I left off.

I find chores that must come first, and therefore writing will have to wait till last. I have laundry to do, bills to pay, flower beds to weed, vegetable plants to water, floors to mop, email to answer, social media accounts to check, thank you notes to write, skin to exfoliate, and so on.

I don’t get away with slacking off for very long. Soon the headaches begin. It’s them. I know it’s them—my characters. They’re responsible for my pain, and they are unmerciful. They pound on the inside of my skull, demanding to be let out, insisting I write the rest of their story or they will drive me insane. More insane than usual, that is.

I suppose I should thank them despite their antisocial behavior. Without their insistence, I might go even longer without writing. Their demands force me back to my MacBook Pro as a matter of survival. Remarkably enough, once I begin writing about them again, my headaches vanish. There has to be a connection, don’t you agree?

Tonight, I have to chance making my characters wait a little bit longer for me to write about them while I take care of one last chore—my blog post for this week. I sure hope they’ll understand. I’m awfully close to running out of aspirin.

I wanted to get that out of the way first thing.

I feel sorry for MG having to put up with me, with late or no dinners, with unfolded laundry, with me staying up all night writing when I’m on a roll, and with coming home at day’s end to find me writing in my pajamas. Hair not combed. Teeth not brushed. Ugh.

Writers are eccentric. That’s the polite way of saying writers are nuts. We freely admit it because we cannot deny the obvious. We see the world differently than the rest of humanity, and our curiosity is endless. Everything is fodder for our stories, so don’t ever tell us your secrets. Be very careful what you say if one of us is within earshot. We are not above eavesdropping. We even have shirts we wear to warn you about us.

On behalf of all writers, I want to apologize for the faraway look in our eyes when you’re speaking to us. You’re correct to assume we’re not listening to you. We’re listening to voices you cannot hear—the voices in our heads, aka the characters we create. While you’re talking to us, we’re actually writing. When we sit at our computers, we’re merely transcribing what we already wrote mentally while not listening to you. [So sorry, MG.]

I’ve lost count of how many times I agreed to do something I had no interest in doing. I wasn’t paying attention to what my [husband, friend, neighbor—fill in the blank] was saying because my mind was on the manuscript I was writing. While I was in a world of my own making, the rest of me was on autopilot responding with “Uh-Huh” every so often, giving the appearance that I was all there and agreeing to whatever. For that inexcusable behavior, I deserved to suffer—and I did.

It gets worse. My mind also wanders to my work in progress during Sunday mass. I thought I was the only romance-writing reprobate who was going straight to hell when leaving this world. Thankfully, I was mistaken. I won’t be alone. A dear friend who shall remain nameless, and author Jennifer Probst (who confessed to the same sinful behavior in her book Write Naked), will join me in eternal damnation. Hell will never be the same.

Finally, for when I actually do listen to what you’re saying, I apologize for silently correcting your grammar and pronunciation.Yes, writers do that. We can’t help ourselves.

Despite all of the above, we fervently hope you have a forgiving nature and will continue to buy our books. Please?