Remember Godzilla? I know there have been lots of Godzillas, what with all the sequels and remakes and a buttload of Versus movies. He’s even been the hero in several of them, and his best friends are annoying children in creepy little Lord Fauntleroy shorts.

Seriously. There should be a law.

But I’m talking about the original Godzilla. The prehistoric monster, born of atomic testing, who slowly tromped into Tokyo, ignoring the armies and tanks and planes and rockets. Hell bent on beating the crap out of the city … and he never once said why.

He was just bad to the prehistoric bone.

There was only one thing worse than this giant rubber dinosaur who spit fire like bad writers sling adverbs—that one was for you, Stephen King. Don’t say I never did anything for you.

And while all this probably sounds like a raving digression, I assure you, I am ripe with purpose.

I give you—cue the trumpets—my day job, ladies and gentlemen.

Yeah, right.

Most writers have day jobs. It’s a love-hate thing for us. We love being able to eat and sleep in a bed and have roofs that keep out the rain and snow. We hate the time it takes, the energy and creativity it robs us of.

Like today. Nine hours of feverish busywork because the one client wants to not only see what I’ve done but how I’ve done it on their terms—which takes two or three times as long. And I guarantee they’ll whine about the hours.

That’s a very annoying digression. Here’s the relevant part:

When I sat down to work on my WIP—if, you don’t remember, that stands for Work in Progress. It still stands for that if you do remember—I got out an entire sentence before my body said, “Dude. Your mind is like a rat salad. Go work out some of this stress and aggression.”

Right. And your body doesn’t talk to you.

So I work out. While I’m punishing myself to feel better—which is a sick concept—my brain realizes I need to fix the sentence I did write. Make it better. Make it sing like the angels.

Okay. That last part was over the top. Sorry. Long day.

I finish my workout. Walk my dogs. Make an easy dinner. And my good eye finally glazes over. I’m spent, and it’s gonna take at least one day longer to finish this book.

I crawl into bed, trying not to think about what my day job has in store for me tomorrow.

And wondering if I locked the doors.

Crap!

Now I have to get up.