Madhouse

My muse sits on my shoulder, shaking her head.  She seems to think I'm wasting my time writing a book on the financial reform bill that's wending its way through a House/Senate conference committee.  Because my contract requires me to provide a manuscript within 2 weeks after President Obama signs the thing, I need to get a draft written now so I can update it with changes after the final version is passed. 

My current thinking is:  I've finally learned never to agree to write a book like this in the Summer.  Too many other things draw my attention:

• Wineberries ripening on Thunder Ridge.
• Peaches being attacked by squirrels.
• Garden space emptied by past-prime peas waiting for seeds.
• Wheat berries beginning to fall on the ground.
• Corn needing side-feeding and watering.
• Fence line begging for mulch.
• Family doctor wanting to check out a spot on my forehead.
• Piano needing practicing for benefit in mid-July. 
• Virginia wanting development and recapitulation.
• Field garden expecting more than weeds.
• Spouse hoping for a hug.
• Son wanting independence.
• Exterior house trim peeling for scraping and new paint.

Maybe it's time to order geothermal cooling and pay local talent to help out.  That's not why we moved here.  Or is it?  Thank goodness I don't have to go somewhere else to work.