It’s A Dirty Job. . .

. . . but I am willing to do it for you people. Yes, hours of slaving over a hot keyboard, to serve up the finest in wet gentlemen.

As some of you know, I have dreadful insomnia, and tonight just happens to be one of those nights when I am not going to get any sleep at all. So, having written two scenes for my WIP, I got to play around on the net, looking for the perfect post for Wetsday. Dear Lord, I suffered through videos of Gerard Butler and Richard Armitage, stills of Colin Firth and Naveen Andrews, candids of the Wilson Brothers, and more shots of Josh Holloway and Liev Schrieber than I can count. As I said, someone has to do it, and I am willing to make the sacrifice.

But I was looking for something a wee bit different this week, something to give you a break from the predictable BBC hero or Lost castaway. Someone more approachable, someone almost real . . . .

And then I realized I had never shared my dirty little secret with the blogosphere. There is one guy I get to watch whenever he is on, without the smart-mouth comments from the teenage daughters or the eye-rolling from DH. Cause they love his show too, for all the wrong reasons.

Yes, it is funny and sometimes unbelievable, so the DD’s like it. The DH feels all macho and warm inside cause watching it makes him a member of the He-Man-Woman-Haters Club. But you and I know, the real reason for watching Dirty Jobs is the chance to see stripped down, sweaty, yummy Mike Rowe.

Doesn’t it make you just want to wash him? And btw, he does clean up very nicely. . .

Writing is Fun Again

Yes, Lordy!
 
I woke up, as always at 2 am since I am a big old forty-something year old woman whose body has a conscientious objection to sleep, and in that hypnagogic state a line I just love came to me (No Herman’s Hermits this time): Martyn had held a number of women as they had done some of the most remarkable things, but never before had a young lady softly wept onto his shirtfront.
 
Yes, I know it has an adverb in it. It belongs there. Deal with it.
 
So I got up, wrote a couple hundred words on my WIP before my brain went back to sleep (just not my body, darn it!) and now I am back into writing instead of editing. I feel it coming. All of a sudden one guy I didn’t even give a name to has stepped up and whacked me on the head and said, “‘Struth, woman, do you not even realize that I am the villain?” So a bit of reworking of what I already have, but oh, it works!!!
 
When it is this much fun, it makes you forget all the stupid stuff about publishing and contests. Lordamercy, I just love writing down the stories!!!!!
 
And to inspire us all as we deal with agents, editors, contest judges, and the most uncaring, soul-rending critic of all — yourself — I offer words of wisdom from the late Saul Bellow:
 
There is only one way to defeat the enemy, and that is to write as well as one can. The best argument is an undeniably good book.

insomnia

For those of you who are not women of a (ahem) certain age, this may be meaningless. But there are those amongst you who know what I mean. You know what it means to crave the sweet oblivion of sleep, to be so exhausted that even your toenails are punch drunk, but YOU. . .CAN. . .NOT. . .SLEEP.

It is 106 am Sunday. I have been up and running since 615 Saturday morning. I have shopped at Walmart (ick), cooked for 14, wrote 1500+ words, gone to the garden center, done 4 loads of laundry,  brought home the bacon, fried it up in the pan, never let him forget he’s a man. (old commercial, for you youngsters.) I am more tired than anyone should be. But here I sit, unable to sleep.

Now all this would be great, if I could accomplish something on the Great American Romance Novel. But I have learned the hard way that the path to heartache is writing or editing while I am sleep deprived. So I can go watch Billy Mayes reruns (Nooooo, don’t go into the light, Billy!!!!) or I can blog. Lucky y’all, guess which I picked.

But I do have the luxury of unlimited time to shop the eye candy store. Since my finished ms ends with the Duke and Duchess all goo-goo over their new-born baby, and I am just a sucker for men who love kids, not to mention my well-known predilection for Brits, what could be better than this:

Romance Mama, I want to have your baby . . .

Romance Mama, I want to have your baby . . .

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