Well, my bud and her hellspaw--I mean, little boy--will be moving out. In a matter of days. I'd do a happy dance, but I'm too exhausted. Plus, I'm saving my strength to help her move, because despite my aversion to lugging heavy objects, I'm prepared to go that extra mile to get rid of h--I mean, help a friend in need.
This means that very soon my muse will rise from the ashes of stress and dirty dishes like some bloated, overweight Pheonix, glutted with scenes I've practically memorized but haven't had the time or a space of calm to put to paper.
This has happened before when things get stressful and busy here, and the ensuing episode of muse-barfing may not be pretty, but often proves to be hugely productive. Expect large jumps in my wordmeters.
In other news, the creepy crawlies of last week are gone. Unfortunately, an infestation of fruit flies has emerged to replace them. I've got a small bowl of rice wine vinegar on my kitchen counter, nearly black with their dead bodies. Also, a few larger ones impaled on bamboo skewers and displayed in prominent places as a warning to others. Too bad the little suckers are too dumb to choose another house to set up camp in, and opt instead to perish by the hundreds in my acrid, culinary pool of death. Die, arthropod scum, DIE!!
Ahh, the joys of summer.
In still more news, my royalty statement from July--which reflects a mere ten days of MBaM sales for The Chancellor's Bride--is almost three times the size of the largest of my previous statements, proving that two guys and a chick really do it for readers. I'll have to think more on this, and see if there are any more m/m/f stories lurking in the dark, evil recesses of my smutwriter's brain.
This does not mean, however, that I plan to abandon the hot girl-on-girl action anytime soon. Setting aside the dubious nature of metaphors that employ seafood and lady parts, I'd rather be a big fish in the small f/f pond than a small one in the vast guy-on-guy ocean. Money's nice, but it ain't everything.