Or I should say, my little old man Howie, as he's all too quickly approaching 77 dog years of age.
He hates NaNoWriMo, having endured ten of them. He sees me with a laptop and doesn't even bother to come and pester me. During football games, he'll pester. He brings his tennis ball and expects me to play Football Ball -- that's when he puts the tennis ball on the foot stool and waits for me to flick it off, over and over again. But when I'm writing, he knows the tennis ball is a lost cause.
My poor boy, so ignored that he is resigned to riding in the car with his Daddy, to the store, to the gas station, or just around the block if the cars need to be moved.
Yes, he hates when I'm writing, but he's all ears like this when I put on my sunglasses and visor and walking sandals.
'Mope' morphs to 'hope;' 'bored' rockets to 'ready to run!'
A brisk walk makes him feel like he's three again, and clears out my dirty dull story cement blocks that inhibit high speed word flow.
Good dog, good walk, good writing to all.
No comments:
Post a Comment