I swear I’m going to do a chapter of Witch’s Daughter soon.
Today is not that day. Mostly because I’m sitting here, debating between working, which I badly need to, and going back to bed, which is what I feel like.
I’m very late with finishing the current short novel, and I can’t be late, the schedule for the year won’t allow it. I should have finished it yesterday, I should. Only ten minutes into writing I found myself in the kitchen baking. And I have no idea why.
To explain, baking is what I do when the world becomes too much to deal with. The amount of baking I do has some proportional correspondence to how horrible what I’m dealing with is.
Dan has joked for years that my first week in any house I bake enough — cake, bread, cookies, whatever — to last a month. If the move has been unusually stressful, I will cook enough to fill a decent sized freezer and last us, in eating for six months.
I do not, btw, want to EAT the stuff — though the baking these days is still low carb, because we ill eventually eat it — I just need to bake.
There is no conscious thought, no “I feel bad, I’ll go bake.” No, what happens is that I’ll find myself suddenly in the kitchen and in the middle of a serious baking spree.
In 9/11, when the second plane hit the tower, I suddenly found myself in the kitchen making doughnuts. In fact, when I became aware of what I was doing, there were two dozen made. And then I made more. And more. And more.
So, you know what the level of “I baked all the things” discomfort? Chaos? Upset? normally is.
I have no idea why, having written a few words and being on track to finish the novel yesterday, I suddenly found myself in the kitchen, baking. Without ever thinking about doing it, btw.
Now if I had just gone to the kitchen and baked a loaf of bread, or even a loaf of bread and a tea cake, I’d just have gone “Okay…. I didn’t feel like writing and played hooky.”
Because one of the things with being low carb is that I do every so often (about once a week) bake a loaf of bread and a cake. And periodically, like one evening every two weeks, I make a batch of cookies. This is the stuff I have with my tea in the afternoon, or in the evening with a cup of hot chocolate, if I’ve achieved my writing goals.
But you know…. that’s not what I did. When I was done, I’d made six different types of crackers and three sets of cookies. Why? I don’t know.
I kept thinking “Why am I doing this? I am late on the novel. I have stuff to write.” and then I’d start another recipe.
We’ll eat it. It’s all in large cookie jars. We’ll eat it over time. BUT why?
I have no idea. I wake up with the horrors a lot, and apparently I’m upset enough to bake up a storm.
So– what do I do now?
I’m going to try to finish the novel to go to my betas. That’s why. And I’d going to put up the short story and remaining novel of Kate’s con books with inkstain.
And then I’m going to find a cozy corner, and sit down and make a bible for the shifter series, so I can finish Bowl of Red.
IF i can get myself up instead of sleeping.
So next up are finishing the two shifter books, and then the two next Dyce books, while I edit Darkships for re-release.
In the middle of this there will several short novels to finish. And a bunch of them in the Schrodinger universe. The next one is Winter Prince.
But that’s, of course, supposing I don’t find myself in the kitchen baking enough for an army.
And I still don’t know what caused the bizarre attack of baking. Which worries more than a little.