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I did nothing last night, other than finish a book. Remind me to tell you about the fact that I adore Nora Roberts, but after a while all of her books have the same plot devices and characters, just in different settings.*

I should feel bad about that, since my Nano deadline is looming, my house looks like a toy store and children’s activity center puked all over it, and I have some freelance stuff that needs to be completed by the end of the week, but I just couldn’t seem to care last night. I let Elizabeth play on Nick Jr. as I read, both of us only half-paying attention to the television. It was wonderful.

So now I’m back to the daily grind, but I feel better. Well, other than my throat feeling a tad thick, but all that takes is some meds and repeating the mantra, “I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick.”

What? That doesn’t work for you?

*yes, I read Nora Roberts. That completely destroys my lit cred, doesn’t it? Oh wait, I don’t have any lit cred.

** And yes, I’ve noticed that I’m really stretching lately for my NaBloPoMo posts, but hell, it’s the end of the month, and y’all have hit this site enough that I’m getting bandwidth warnings.

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The first day of November has always been a world of extremes for me regarding writing, thanks to National Novel Writing Month, lovingly referred to