It was a surprise to me when I finished my novel’s first draft yesterday. I knew I would finish it yesterday. I had planned to finish it. Thought I was prepared to finish it. But still, I typed a sentence, hit the period, went to write the next and then realized there was no next. I sat there with half-dry hair and read it a dozen times trying to make sure.

(I’d paused to blow dry my hair, got halfway done and just couldn’t stay away. I sat back down at the keyboard with half my head dry and half dripping, which explains why I occasionally look like Albert Einstein on a particularly off day.)

But there it was. Undeniable. The first draft was done. I was then so incredibly tired, I dragged myself by the scruff through rest of the day, going through the motions before I could collapse into bed.

Today I was going to be virtuous and clean things. But instead picked up a new book at 7 a.m. and read it straight through, cover to cover, with only the slightest guilt. This must be how cats feel – without the guilt part, of course. If I had paws, I would stretch them.

(“A Monstrous Regiment of Women” by Laurie R. King is, by the way, well worth the price of admission.)

Apart from a mental tail-chasing session trying to come up with a title – quite unsuccessfully, I have done absolutely nothing productive. And now feel I must go clean something before the lazy police come and take me away.