The longer I pursue a career as a romance author, the more obvious my excuses become to me. Excuses for why I’m not writing. Excuses to make me feel better about watching TV at night. Excuses for procrastinating a new marketing endeavor. This is Excuse #68: Skidmarks.
Every weekend, I vacuum the entire house. The power company has convinced my husband that this will save us 0.00007% on our bill. I happen to be a champion thumb wrestler thanks to my large hands and usually, I win the chore. Yes. I win. The loser gets to pick up toys, keep the kids out of the way and stop all toy messes during vacuuming. Winner gets to blare music on the iPod. And I get a lot of plot ideas while pushing that thing from room to room.
So, where’s the excuse, you say?
Skidmarks. Every room has one. My toddler daughter doesn’t poop so much as shart. That’s code for Hershey’s kisses from her bum. On the carpet. Well, why on earth is she sitting naked on the carpet, you demand? She takes off her diaper, usually while I’m sneaking in a page or paragraph. She also is a bathtub escape artist and runs straight to her toys the second I turn to dry her brother off.
Each room gets vacuumed, each skidmark gets scrubbed. Blame it on denial or my mommy eyes but I never see the things until I vacuum. Or perhaps, I ignore them, subconsciously saving the little brownies for vacuum day, the day when having my husband home should mean I write far more, not far less. Either way, skidmarks become a time suck.
And a really good excuse.