It's almost 11 pm and I'm sitting on my recliner, trying to work out a scene in my story that just isn't going the way I want it to. So far I've written two different versions, and neither one of them is perfect (or even sort of perfect. I think I'd even take average at this point).
My husband is on the bed next to me, snoring peacefully although the lamp is on and I'm typing loudly (people always tell me I type fast-- I usually tell them I have a bad habit of banging on the keys, which makes me sound like I'm doing more than I am). I should go to bed. I've got to get up early and clean the house so the bug guy can come spray and because I have family coming into town. I, of course, didn't get the cleaning done today because I was working on this scene (among a few other things. When you're a mother of four, occasionally you have to get up out of your chair and help a child). But what I really want to do is get this scene finished. I want it to be true to my characters. I want it to be done and I want to move on.
So why am I writing on this blog instead of doing that? I really don't know. I think my brain is dry.