No, we have not fallen off the face of the earth, although it was touch-and-go there for a spell.
The author has three books in the works—okay, “in the works” as in “chug, chug chug,” but still. Two are ours. The other one belongs to the Squatter chicks, but I think the DWD will get to ride in the front seat. (Can you say “packed like sardines”?)
Anyway, she’s plotting, writing, and doing all-around elf-y things. Life goes on—for her, for us, and we sure as hell hope for you, too.
Yeeeees! She got over “the first hump” by a whopping 18 words!
Second hump, by the way, is mid-book when she declares, “This is the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever written.” That’s always a fun day in here, especially since its our frickin’ life she’s chronicling.
Third hump, thankfully, is, “Oh, okay, I get.”
Okay, now that the Squatter chicks are all quiet in here, the author has returned her attention to us and LAC 21. Halle-frickin’lujah!
I put the Baby Steps monitor back up, but for the life of me I can’t remember what the last count was. Regardless, she’s gotten it up at least a couple thousand in these past days. I’ve set it for what she’s got this morning: 8,437. I won’t change the goal of 10,000, what she generally refers to as “the first hump,” and hopefully she’ll zip right past it and keep going. Literally, our life depends upon it. Frickin’ writers! They drive me nuts. Okay, except for journalists. Okay, except for one journalist. Okay, maybe not that journalist either. Frickin’ writers, every last one of them!
Move, Baby Steps, move!
Hey, she is clipping through her edits at an amazing pace. We are hopeful she will finally turn her undivided attention to us very soon.
In the meantime, I swiped another Squatter 2 chapter for you…
A caravan of white trucks pulled into Trinity’s driveway a few minutes before ten o’clock that Saturday morning. Again, her excitement overpowered her dread of the inevitable upheaval.
As though choreographed, each driver went different ways but ultimately ended up with the backs of the trucks fanned out directly in front of the house. Brakes squeaked, engines cut, and doors flung open.
With exuberant steps, Uncle Gene made his way onto the porch to greet her. They exchanged a long hug and a quick kiss before he teased her about taking over a year to decide to let him renovate. Back then, she had urged him to take all his ex-wife’s and son’s belongings, and this was how he sought to repay her for what he deemed a profit—both financial and emotional.
“Are you ready for these yokels to take over your upstairs?” he asked, and when she nodded, he warned, “Just remember that it will look like total destruction before it all begins to take shape. It will all come together in the end. I promise.”
The author finished the first draft of Squatter 2! Yep, as improbable as it seemed, she did it. Let there be fireworks across the whole frickin’ nation to celebrate! A three-day weekend would be a nice touch, too.
And what exactly does that mean for the DWD?
Well, other than the fact that she has to edit the damn thing (90,600+ words, mind you) at least three times to get it to “final draft,’ we are next in line. We have to be next in line! Jesus, don’t anyone dare put new ideas in her head! We would have to take drastic measures. We’ll contemplate what those should be whilst you enjoy the fireworks. While you’re watching, finding someone to high-five with. Yes, I mean it. Just do it! Be Dykes Who Dares!
She’s been slowly plugging away at LAC 21 and making strides on the ending of Squatter’s sequel. She’s nowhere near atop her game, but she’s moving nonetheless. Dribbling.
We’re being nothing but accommodating and pleasant, and frankly, it’s driving us nuts. Doing our part in this strange little arrangement, I guess, but it makes me want to scream while running down Crappie Cabin’s pier to do a cannonball. Clothes on, thank you. Oh, except, it’s February here in our world, and I really don’t want to go walking on lake ice ever again, especially with Laura.
Anyway, keep sending those good prodding vibes. She needs them. She’s rusty. Maybe some chick with a dog in a basket will happen by and use that oil can on her. Except, that would make it the Wizard of Roz, and if you say that aloud, that makes you sound like Scooby Doo.
Okay, we are removing the Baby Steps meter. While the whole public accountability thing with the author usually works, it is not this time and, I suspect, may even be making it worse. Big, stinky backfire. Way big, stinky backfire.
She needed a break, but a break that comes with the word “can’t” attached to it, isn’t really a break. It’s more a brake or a breaking, and, trust me, we do not want and/or need a broken author.
So… She will write when she writes, and it will be a good thing, not a head-bashing, teeth-pulling, do-or-die-trying endeavor. She will once again marvel at what a damn cool group of chicks she has living within the confines of her skull. Have faith.
