Whiteouts and Hay bales... And there was something else, but I forget...

I forgot what day it was. That is, until the lovely and impeccably organizedHeather from over at Edited to Within an Inch of My Life, sent me an email letting me know that her interview with me was up, I forgot what day it was. *sigh* I should hope that I'll get better at remembering things like this, since I'm working on becoming published, and they usually expect authors to remember things involving them directly. I SHOULD hope... but I know that would be a waste of a wish. You can check out my interview by clicking Heather's link. And I'd like to say THANK YOU to Heather for offering to interview me to start with. I forgot (are you surprised?) to thank her in my first comment over there... which I'll rectify momentarily.

Like many other writers, or artsy-fartsies, when I get into 'the groove', the rest of the world just sort of fuzzes out. This is awesome, as long as you remain in 'the groove'. But when you manage to pull yourself OUT of 'the groove' you're likely to be met with strange things. Like children who look familiar but are dressed in scraps from the laundry hamper and are eating things like raw hot dogs, sticks of butter and whatever else they could find in the second drawer of the fridge, which is as high as they could reach. In my case, when I come out of 'the groove' I usually find myself surrounded by equine drama. This week, that included, but was not limited to: Lame ponies, sick ponies, very pregnant almost-at-their-due-date-could-pop-at-any-time ponies, crotchety old stallions who think spring is here and want to prance for the ladies - even if it means falling on their butts in the ice, incorrigible brat-baby ponies who don't understand snow and having to stay inside, and one very contrary donkey who is convinced that he may actually starve to death before spring.

Most of this drama was abated and dispersed by simply attending to it as it occurred. But since someone decided to create a dimensional vortex in which several hundred square miles of the Artic was transposed with areas of central Virginia, we also had to plan for the incoming snow. So I've been busy hauling hay home to my own horses (and that poor starving donkey) in addition to regular work. Oh, and did I mention that my clone-sibling, code name Fenris, is pregnant herself? So she can't help as much with the heavy lifting and she isn't allowed to go skijoring behind unruly horses. Add to this my own maniacal compulsion to keep writing on several WIPs at once and you get madness. Utter, blissful, wonderful madness.

I added this picture as evidence of our snow plight. That's me on the dark horse who's face was strategically cut off by the photographer (Fenris' hubby, Chucky Duck). His name's Sierra. That's me ma on the sled (where did you think I get my wild airs from?) and Fenris on her fat strawberry roan, Dixie. The starving donkey is just out of view, in front of Sierra, wielding a stick in his mouth and preparing to give chase to us. My father wasn't present because he's a funeral director and he was off on a death call. Welcome to my family. This is my madness.

And madness, I must say, is awesome. But it tends to make one, vacant, at times. Which might come across as inattentive or uncaring. And I'm not either. I'm just artfully forgetful. Doesn't that sound better than saying 'I can't remember my own ass because my head is filled with characters and plot points'? Yup, definitely sticking with artfully forgetful. Of course, the results are the same. I wake up and check my email and discover that I've forgotten what amounts to my second interview of all time. But I'm on the right page now, and... and... what was I saying? I had to pause so I could write down this really cherry nab of dialogue I've been trying to get just right...