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It’s 7:20 AM here and I’m at my desk. Why so early on a Saturday? Our daughter, Trinity, had an event with her father so Jon and I got up early to make certain she made it on time, even if the hour is horribly early. We got about five hours of sleep, I think. We had a birthday party for a good friend’s daughter, and the daughter, too, is a friend. We’ve known them since before she could talk in more than baby gibberish, the daughter not the friend. It was her sweet sixteen and yes she is taller than I am, and quite pleased with it she is. Having met her father I knew genetics was on her side for the height, but she’s still unduly pleased about inching me out this year.

The party was good. It was fun meeting people from many different parts of her life and mixing them all together in one party. It was even a surprise party so we had to do that thing where this huge group of people have to be utterly quiet every time the phone rang just in case it was her. Trinity had a great time so it was totally worth it knowing we’d have to be up earlier than for a weekday so she could make the stuff with her father. It didn’t feel so totally worth it when the alarm went off this morning.

I’m fine getting up early on weekends if the muse drags me out of bed with the book running wild in my head, so that the words seem to drip from my finger tips and are barely contained long enough for me to get to my computer. That’s a great reason to wake early. This morning was not one of those days. Jon and I both woke feeling liked we’d been hit with a padded hammer in various body parts. He complained of head, mine was gut. (No we did not drink.) We’re just rather delicate in the area of constitution. My theory is that most artists are and that’s why we turn to drugs and alcohol so often, to give us a reason to feel this bad. At least if we’d had a bender the night before we might be able to convince ourselves that we had a good time and this was all worth it. The cold reality is that it’s lack of sleep, lack of food and maybe just the work schedule. I sat beside, walked beside, stood beside, more food I couldn’t eat last night than ever. Damn it, I wanted chips and dip and cheesy fried things. But this morning I hadn’t ruined any of that hard work in the gym, so it was worth it. Jon and I did share a piece of cake last night. It was yummy. We traded all the chips and such for eating the cake. It’s all about discipline and compromise. The veggie and fruit tray was our friend. (That friend that is always good and virtuous and never seems to get into any trouble. The one you hate just a little, because they’re always so smug about it. Smug and perfect. It gives you that perverse urge to cover them in whipped cream, throw a few sex toys around them and snap pictures of them going, "Nooo!" Or maybe that’s just my perverse urge. I actually don’t have any friends like that anymore. My friends that are that good are genuinely that good and there’s no smugness about it they work hard at it, and I see their struggles to maintain the balance. I even help when I can. I am only the voice of temptation when invited.)

So I sit here at my desk, huddling around the second cup of tea of the day, feeling a little fragile. It feels like I’ve been on tour and any of you that have done that will understand just how bad I feel. My muse not only isn’t eager to get to work, but I think she’s huddling over her caffeinated beverage of choice giving me a dirty look. "How can I inspire you on so little sleep?" To that, I have no answer. I sympathize with her, my muse. We huddle over th keyboard and hurt, and try to remember why we’re here, and what we’re supposed to be thinking about. There’s this book. That’s right. A book, Merry book, but right this second I can’t remember where I left off.

Oh, God, I just checked. It’s a sex scene. I cannot possibly write a good sex scene right now. It’s too early. Last night was too late. I’m hungry and nauseous; I hate that combination. Fight scene maybe. Crime scene, rock on. Sex scene, not so much.

Drain STH on the player. It’s music that can make me think about sex, or obsession, or even broken hearts. This morning it’s jut noise. Have to run away and try to find something to inspire me.