This is where I should be right now. It’s calling to me, promising to erase a wicked week of bad scheduling and Thing That Went Wrong. I must deny the bed, though, at least a little longer. I’m a few hundred words behind on NaNoWriMo and those unwritten words won’t let me relax.
The story, you see, is riding piggy-back with me through every waking moment of my life now. This is how it happens, and this is, in fact, a good thing. It’s whole reason I love the ridiculous goal of 50.000 words in 30 days – complete immersion.
I forgot that the living part of life likes to kick me in the ass every now and then, though. I just shake my head.
Fine, then. I’m going to finish out this scene, catch up on the word count, and go do it all over again tomorrow. I plan to spent the better part of the day with a whole gaggle of National Writing Project teachers sipping coffee, scribbling, and moseying through the little shops and flea markets at Pickles Gap. I believe they have a petting zoo there as well.
Southern psychiatry: Pet some goats, buy some junk, scribble a story, and eat homemade fudge. By late tomorrow afternoon, I should be cured.
No Telling 
I could go for some southern psychiatry right now. Minus the goats, could we leave them out and have extra fudge instead?
More fudge, hold the goats. We could do that.
Northern California psychiatry is almost identical, except there's usually a glass of good wine to go along with it all. Even the goat petting.
Something right in the middle would be great. No goats, extra fudge and wine. 'Course the problem is that the extra fudge could make your keyboard sticky, but if you drink enough wine you won't care š
Mmmm, fudge…
I don't know how people can write good stories, having to follow a word count?
Cara, the wine has to be imported here – dry county and all. Don't get me started.
GunDiva and Renee, the fudge there at Pickles Gap is ridiculous. Something like forty different flavors of pure ecstasy.
Otin, you'd be surprised at what turns up when you have to write 50,000 words so fast. It's thrilling!
I like goats. 'specially the baby ones.
Oh, and it's probably too late, but I saw on your twitter postings that you were searching for a mean old country woman name. I'd like to suggest Geraldine. Nastiest little old biddy I ever knew.
here's to sticky fingers
Southern psychiatry, indeed. But I think you forgot to mention that one must consume some kind of foodstuff smothered in gravy in order to be truly cured.