Only dogs and Englishmen - summertime in DC
Every year, as I look out over the forest that makes up my backyard and watch the clouds snag on the trees this far up the mountain, I fool myself into thinking it will stay a temperate 73* all year long. Then, without fail, the next week will bring the steamiest, god-forsaken weather on this side of the planet. We're not talking Texas hot or Arizona death-hot, I mean the humid, nasty, you can taste the inside of your nose - hot. Ew.
The heat is non-conducive to anything but laying on the couch and moaning softly about how far the remote is, "Be a dear, Mama can't push the little buttons from this angle." The evil ones aren't buying any of it. They run outside to bounce on the trampoline and look under the couch for old juice boxes. So how does a writer with a to-write list an arm-length long get anything done? She suckers her teenager to do it. Okay, no. That's what I want to happen but what really goes on is I flop around a bit, stalk Workman Publishing on Twitter for a while and think up dirty Haiku for the Zombie Dating Guide's Undead Fred. That dude is twisted.
Wait, don't run away / I have delicious treats here / Eyeballs are yummy (G-rated for my childrens' delicate eyeballs. Mmmm, eyeballs)
How do you get motivated to write/work when the heat's so hot even Nicole Kidman breaks a sweat?
Image credit: vintagetease.com