It seemed like a good idea at the time. If months were to have mantra’s, I think that would be January’s. The month of regret for the sins of December. Did you use real butter in all your holiday baking? Or better yet, did your awesome friends use it in theirs? As I try to get comfortable in coach, for a nice long flight, I always rethink those Christmas cookies. Did you decide to experiment with new styles of clothing at those spectacular post-holiday sales? You really can’t color code tie-dye in your closet. Or wear it in public much. It seemed like a good idea at the time would make an excellent name for a boat, a bumper-sticker for a parachute, maybe even a tattoo.
It seemed like a good idea at the time would also be an appropriate working title for my current WIP. As a writer whose idea of planning and plotting a novel consists of sharpening my pencil, I am in the painful throes and thrashes of pasting together dozens and dozens of scenes for my work in progress. I’m a pantser who doesn’t hesitate to write an extra 100,000 or so words only to have to chop them out later, I like to explore possibilities. The problem is that math stuff, I mean I might only be able to keep writing sixty or seventy years and there are an awful lot of stories to get out in that time. Time’s a wastin’!
Just like those people in rows 27 through 56 who are anxious to deplane while you search overhead bins for your carry-on items, my next story has been shoving to get out. You’d think it was going to miss its connection. So I’ve been plotting it out. Yes. Stand back, I have a plan. In the meantime I faithfully continue onward with my glue sticks, snub-nosed scissors and scotch tape on my current story. I owe it to these people, we’ve been through a lot together. We’re starting to plan a bit of a celebration for whoever survives. It will involve butter cookies and tie-dye clothing, maybe even resulting in an upgrade to business class (doubt coach will fit after those additional cookies). The party could start at any time, all we’re waiting for is the perfect time to whisper those sweet, sweet, words we’re so desperately longing to hear. The End.