Life on the house recovery front is a huge heaping pile of steaming shit. I intend to NOT let that stand in the way of finishing this book, which still doesn't have better than a working title, though I came up with a cutsie name for the comet last Friday. Dana is pulling his crap again. He stood in the kitchen yesterday and essentially mocked me for fixing up the house. He insisted that no one who could afford the amount I'm asking for it is going to do anything but raze it and build a new house on the existing basement.
Yeah, that made for a really nice trip home.
Saturday morning for about five minutes was the only work I managed to devote to the book. I had an idea, and even though we were supposed to be leaving for work at the house, I grabbed my bowling pencil and the legal pad and scribbled madly for a few minutes. Basically it's more on the Kelsey and Grandma Opal get the warning scene.
I also figured out why Parker thinks his mom may have survived the apocolypse. She's one of those people who bought the Homeland Security gas mask and duct tape. If I ever finish this one and write the sequel, she may turn up somewhere.
The whiny story of slogging through writing my first novel.
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