tamorapierce: yellow sign showing figure banging head on desk (Default)
But . . . but . . . but . . . you cry. The little singing birdies! The BIG singing birdies! Tiny green buds and shoots that stick out of ground you swore was dead last month! The arrival of bright flowers so cautious they stick close to the ground! Fresh breezes sweeping out the glooms of . . . a really lousy three months of snow.

Up until this week I didn't notice it was April, you see, so I was working along like the virtuous writer I'm supposed to be. Well, trying to. I knew it was April, but I didn't know, because in previous years April has been a month during which I sit in the draft from the open window, sniffing green things, listening to birdies, and being mildly comatose.

I can't write during April. Spring oozes over me like honeyed balm. I don't even struggle. But I was fine up until two days ago, when it hit me like a pop in the kisser.

IT'S APRIL!!!! IT'S SPRING!!!! THERE'S BIRDIES!!!!!! THERE'S LITTLE FLOWERS!!!!! For the first time in three months I can go outside without a coat and have air that doesn't freeze in my lungs! I'M NOT DEPRESSED!!!! LOOK OUTSIDE!!!! I'm . . . drooling.

Deadline? What does it mean, deadline?

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tamorapierce: yellow sign showing figure banging head on desk (Default)
tamora pierce

September 2016

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