Psych. You'll See.

Ugh! The past few weeks have not been kind. I’ve been in hiding, editing like a mad scientist, eating like a sumo wrestler.

I’m telling you, I’ve really done it this time. Last night I had the opportunity to speak to a writing group in Denver. This meant wearing something other than yoga pants. Why doesn’t someone design a line of professional-looking yoga wear? The tag line could be something like “Now Every Day is Casual Friday.” Or, “Too many business lunches? Don’t worry, our fashions hide the bulge.” Or something really catchy, like “Pro-ga.”

I’ve been trying to ignore some weird symptoms, telling myself I’d get things checked out when I finished editing the novel.

Some stuff happened—you don’t want to know—I ended up at the doctor’s office yesterday. Our family has been going to the same practice for at least six years. I consider the staff friends. Which is why I had a heart attack when I heard, “Oh my goodness!” outside the exam room door after the PA decided to run a pregnancy test.

Wouldn’t it be cool if the eating and the yoga pants and the symptoms were all leading up to a big reveal?

Cool for you maybe. Not for me.

No, not pregnant.

So what is wrong with me? Darned if I know. The PA sent me home with muscle relaxers for back spasms and a strict warning that, even though he gave me the prescription that doesn’t cause drowsiness, I was not to drive a car until I’d gotten used to the side effects. My husband quickly echoed this caution. Then my friend Steampunk Beth added cycling to the taboo list just to be safe. The last time I took muscle relaxers, I couldn’t even walk like a normal person.

So I’m back to sitting in a chair and eating. Oh, help.

The good news is, today I finished my first round of edits on The Immortal Heathcliff.

I now solemnly promise to:
Start eating something besides apples, cheese, and peanut butter.
Go back to Zumba before my butt-a won’t fit-a through the door-a.
Take something besides dark chocolate and Coke Zero for my migraines.
Feed my family.
Clean the toilet.
Tend to the grays.
Return phone calls and emails.
Figure out what Occupy Wall Street is about.
Figure out what Occupy Evangeline’s Closet is about.
Take the dog in for her heartworm test.
Take the Wookies in for their haircuts.
Do something, er, fun with my husband.
Blog.
Sleep.
Brush my teeth.

During my house arrest, I did read two awesome books. My friend Brandy Vallance's not-yet-published Victorian novel The Covered Deep, a delightful mix between Anne of Green Gables, Indiana Jones, and Around the World in Eighty Days. I know! You can't tell me you don't want to read that book. Brandy is going to do awesome things for the historical romance genre. I also read Jenny B. Jones's There You’ll Find Me. I’m being honest here. I didn’t realize how much I needed this book until I read it. It blessed me. Read it.

That’s all for now, folks. The laundry’s calling and who knows how long it’ll take to get out of this chair and across the house to the laundry room.