woe is scrivener

I've come to a point in a book that makes me realize that no matter how much I enjoy spending time with these characters, there's no actual story in this story. The internal conflict is low grade; the external confusing. So I figure I'd load everyone onto a bus and take them out for a drive.

The bus, in this case, is one of those Miraculous Organizing Writing Programs. And so far, I've lost touch with the characters and I feel old and completely separated from anything resembling a spark of imagination. Also I can't figure out how to switch between windows without a lot of cursing and thumping.

To make matters worse for myself--because that's what I'm here for--I took a break and wandered around the internet looking at reviews of my stuff (and there aren't many and no one likes my books and why do I bother? This tastes so bad and the portions are too small.)

So yeah, pretty much business as usual.

Here, let me step out of the self-pity closet and smack down the moths of anxiety and maybe shake off the dust of doubt.  (My closets are a mess.) . . . and ummmm lay out the fresh garments of . ...

Screw it. I think I'll start writing something new. Bonnie and I finished writing a book last week and I'm still at loose ends. 

And let me take another step back and away from the stuffy closet by reading someone else's book.

Hey, that brings up something something sad. I read a Carla Kelly that I didn't like very much and that shook me. Too much plot and it was sort of silly. Even the usual charming banter didn't save it for me.

But here's something nice. As I wrote "woe is scrivener" I could clearly hear my friend Rosemary's voice. She's been dead for a long time, gone enough years that she's fading. Recalling something vivid is rare enough to be a gift.
 
How I got today's gift: Rosemary had a cat called Cassandra and when I asked her where the name came from, she told me the story of Cassandra and how that Trojan lady went around the place moaning woe to Trojans! woe to Troy! The cat Cassandra wailed plaintively too. Rosemary had a lovely British accent and a great laugh and just writing the title here brought back that story and her voice and laugh to me for a moment. I hereby declare that brief memory of her more real than my metaphorical/allegorical badly-kept closet.