So what's the problem? I'll tell you . . . .

This book isn't just being written like another romance or women's fiction. It has a certain tone to it, a tone that has to be maintained from start to finish. So I'm finding myself lingering on certain passages that lack that oomph. It's kind of hard to explain; you might have to read the book when it comes out before you see what I mean. But I do believe that's at least part of the reason for my slow progress. Another part is that my dictation time is non-existent now that I'm riding in to work with my husband, so I'm working less. But I'd rather spend $50 to gas up one car than $100 to gas up two, especially since our respective offices are just 5 minutes apart.

Here's the count:



It's also not helping that I find myself thinking of other things when I should be writing. I'm afraid I'm burned out. Not on writing, which I love, but on work in general (and writing is work). It's been a mainstay in my life, to the point where every day - even on weekends - I jump out of bed at 5AM and tell myself to get right to work. Yes, I know I just got back from vacation, but that was five days. This busy period of moving, getting settled in and trying to meet this deadline has lasted for over three months, and I'm sick of it.

Speaking of my mind wanderings, it just occurs to me that today is the centennial of my uncle's birth. Beverly Alan Griffin, the oldest of three children (my father was the youngest) was born on July 30, 1908. (Note that in those days certain names, like Beverly and Vivian, were usually given to boys. My sister's maiden name was Beverly A. Griffin, and at my uncle's funeral in 1992 I remember her holding up the program, 'Homegoing service for Beverly A. Griffin,' pointing to the name and saying it gave her cold shivers.)

So Happy Birthday to you, Uncle Bev!