We're tickled here at Inkstained Succubus to be publishing HC Playa's first book, Fated Bonds. And today, we have HC with us, talking about the life of a writer.
A Day in the Life of a writer…
5:30am- Smack alarm
5:40- Smack alarm again
5:50- Grumble as I fall out of bed, smack the alarm, and stumble to the bathroom
Needless to say, I am not one of those that get up early to write.
6-9am – Hectic dash to get everyone to school and work.
9-5:30pm- Work, wherein I sometimes sneak in writing while cells are incubating or solvent is evaporating, or maybe it’s just Monday.
6:00-9:00- Pick up kids, ferry to required appointments when needed, and then transport home. Cook dinner if not already cooked by my partner in crime, eat, and if I’m very lucky, sit down to write for thirty minutes or an hour.
10:00- Delay going to bed by one more paragraph, or more likely, one more clicky Facebook game.
Most of my writing gets done in spurts on the weekends. Sometimes I even get the house to myself, but more often than not the kids are doing their own thing while I torture characters. Some writers have playlists or soundtracks for their writing. Mine isn’t the usual variety.
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“You just ate.”
“I’m hungry again.”
“So eat an apple.”
“Did anyone feed the cats this morning?”
[Chorus of “no’s”]
[Randomly pick child for task] “Please feed the cats.”
[Typing, typing, typing]
“Bark, bark, bark.”
“Someone let Millie out before she pees.”
[Realize everyone has escaped outside to avoid chores.]
“Bark, bark, bark.”
[Sets aside laptop]
“Come on Millie.”
I have been known to accidently type “feed the cats” or a child’s name instead of what I meant to type. Still, I’ve learned to make the most of those golden minutes of silence before someone demands I return to the “real world”.
As a treat, here’s an excerpt from Fated Bonds, my newly released novel:
When she hit the street, Tala flipped on the siren and lights she'd paid to have installed. She leaned on the horn as she veered around an old Cadillac going a full ten miles under the speed limit and then raced through a yellow light. Kynigos grabbed the door when Tala swung around a corner, tires squealing. Tala floored the gas pedal as vehicles moved out of her way. It gave her a perverse pleasure to see Kynigos’s white face as she careened down the street.
“Please tell me you don’t drive like this all of the time.”
Of course she didn’t, but Tala feigned ignorance, “Drive like what?” Tala hit the brakes and screeched to a halt in front of a dilapidated apartment building.
Just as she turned the key to kill the engine a small surge of magic came from the woman next to her. Tala could spot a protection spell while half-asleep. Too general to truly be effective, she never bothered with them, but many lesser skilled magic practitioners used them with the same habitual frequency Catholics used the sign of the cross.