Doug Savage, who draws (on post-its) wonderful cartoons (mostly about chickens) has offered up some Olympic events for the lazy. If you're not a follower, you can find him here.
However, if you're a writer, when your butt is in a chair, it's not necessarily a bad thing. It might mean you're writing.
What tricks do you have up your sleeve (or in your waistband) that keep you in your chair? Do you have a special chair that is hooked up to a cattle prod really adds to the writing experience?
Inquiring minds want to know...
The days are cooling off, which means--in our neighborhood--a flood of Jehovah's Witnesses will start their knocking anew. I apologize if you are of that faith, but since you wouldn't let me rollerblade on your parking lot, I don't want you on my front stoop.
Often, signs on the door do nothing to deter. Neither do dogs. But Tammy comes rushing to the rescue. She has the perfect assortment of signage; you choose the message, the style, and she'll handcraft them to match your home's motif.
What kind of message can you send to bothersome door-knockers? Check them out here.
Also, I recently got news that two (which means I need to use two fingers, and not just my all-time favorite one) of my stories will appear in Not Your Mother's Book on Dogs--"A Power Higher Than the Law" and "Heart of Pure Gold." Kathleene Baker has been a delightful editor to work with. She's bent over backwards to ensure that 1) enough details were changed in one of the stories so I wouldn't be thrown into jail (I committed a felony) and 2) I was happy with any changes/cuts that were made. I was actually looking forward to some time in prison--unlimited time to read, no lesson plans to write, no cooking or cleaning to do--but that will have to wait for another day.
This was my turn to crow. How 'bout you? What do you want to shout from the rooftops? It could be writing-related, or it could be something along the lines of, "I am so proud, my buttons are about to pop off. I ate only half of the bag of Dove chocolates, instead of the whole freakin' bag. What's that you say? You think it's my poochy gut and not my pride that's causing my buttons to fly off like missiles? Why, you little..."
Go ahead. Yell it, scream it, whisper it. We're listening...
