Never fear, I figured out the problem.
In 2012, a tornado struck the town where my in-laws live. A tree fell on their house and after a lot of drama that made me roll my eyes and mutter about how crazy they can be, they finally got their #$%& together and moved into a double-wide on the farm they own, away from the crazy little town I disgustingly call Parasite (which sort of sounds like town's actual name).
They purchased a new recliner for my father-in-law. The old one sat in their old, tree-smashed house, which was livable and only leaked a little. I don't think any water leaked on the recliner, because it was pretty much sitting in the same place for, like, 7 billion years, even after the 'nado.
So the old recliner sat there all sad and forlorn because no one sat in it anymore. And one day my husband asks his parents if we can have the recliner, because hobos wouldn't sit in his, hand-to-God. We cart the recliner home and it takes up space where the old one did.
Now, I have this big ol' cushy armchair that I've sat in ever since we moved into the house. It's ugly as sin and broken down, but trust me, hobos would love to sit in it. It has years of accumulated crap under the cushions, it's been chewed on by dogs, nursed me back to health when I felt poorly, and has served as a home to wayward spiders on occasion (it's called character, people). This is the chair where I began my first novel after I started writing again in the fall of 2008, this is the chair where I finished my last novel months ago. I share this chair with my sidekick/doggy editor PeeWee, but lately it's been so hot and my husband has been working nights, so I let PeeWee take my chair and I sit in the recliner formerly of the Parasite town.
I've done some writing, but with my WIP, I was, um, sort of at work when I started it. And I've done more writing on it at work than anywhere else. Pre-edits were coming due for The Wrong Brother's Bride and I slogged through them with hardly any enthusiasm while my charming furbaby curled in my chair and I moved this way and that in the recliner, trying to get comfortable.
|*Not the actual chair.|
Image courtesy of
The only reason I was sitting in the chair and the dog was in mine was because my husband said, "Don't let the dog sit in my chair." Well guess what, Buster? I'm reclaiming that which is mine. The dog is going to have to sit in your chair, or I'm afraid the writing process will abandon me completely!
Devil chair, begone! (Here's hoping I find my mojo again.)
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