Confessions of an Author Between Books

I turned in Finding Love in Eureka, California, and I'm waiting for edits.

I've been offered a new contract for books I can't start writing yet because they will involve some collaboration.

I have another completed manuscript out there in the submission abyss.

So...I'm not sure what to do with myself at the moment.

I thought about going back to bed after my husband left for work this morning, but I'd already had a cup of coffee, which means it's not like I could actually sleep.

The house has been cleaner and I've put on clothes more this week than I have in a long time. It's a real treat for my family. I could go do some laundry and shower right now, though I feel like I just did that. Is this how normal people live every day? Weird.

My kids are home with me for one last week before school starts, but they are still asleep. Sometimes I wake them up with giddy plans for bringing joy to the world, but this usually doesn't work out well for anyone. (They are teenagers.)

I could read a book, but I'm not one of those readers who likes to consume as many books as possible. I taste test books until I find one I must devour, then I savor it until all the flavor has dissipated. I'm still savoring True to You by Becky Wade.

I could go market my books on facebook like everybody else. "Hello, North America (and Angela in England), look how GREAT I am!" Of course, this can get disheartening after a while. Because if I was really that great, I wouldn't have to talk about me; other people would do it.

I go grocery shopping every other Friday. Usually this is frustrating because it interrupts my writing, but today is an off Friday. I have nothing to buy.

My toenails are even painted with the only pedicure I've gotten this year. How am I this on top of things?

I guess I have no choice but to face the garage I've been saying I'll clean out forever. It is time. Dang it.

You are probably responding to these confessions in one of two ways.

1) You are a writer, and you feel my pain. (Thank you, Peter Leavell for commiserating with me already this morning.)

2) You are thanking God for making you anything but a writer.

It's fine, either way. And you really don't have to feel too bad for me. I won't be between books for long. I'm sure I'll find lots more story ideas and plot lines in the boxes of forgotten items on garage shelves. It's what authors do.