embarrassing creche scenes.
So my weird noise for the wee hours was a strangled giggle, muffled so that I hopefully won't wake up Rach and have her whack something again. Of course, I am the one with the fiber optic Santa and Easter bunny hanging in the window. But, hey, when we find something Rach likes to watch, we stick with it.
These are two reasons why I've asked my complex about renting a three-bedroom apt. More room for stuff and a room for me to get away from Rach at night--or at work. She's taken to being jealous of my typing lately, which she can hear since her bed is just outside the office door.
Of course, the good thing about being a writer is that this all becomes grist for the mill.
Speaking of, I'm having a horrid time with Secrets. It’s coming along, but I keep being drawn back to Murder, etc., and I wound up spending my insomnia hours browsing the local public library site, requesting sixteen books and videos for research. Lots of crime scene stuff, but they already know I’m a writer. So they no longer look at me funny when I order things like The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Criminal Investigation. (No kidding, that’s the title.)
Maybe it’s time for a nap.
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