Silentium!

That's how my Latin teacher started every class. Yeah, that dead language. Except it's alive and well and living quietly among English and the Romance languages so shut up, if you're reading this without difficultly, you've kind of taken Latin too.

Do you hear that? That, dearest denizens, is the sound of silence. Sweeeet. My WIP sits close by demanding its turn and I stare at it begging for forgiveness, promising atonement, the attention it deserves.

I printed it out for self-editing, a habit I picked up after realizing I looked at the ms with totally different eyes that way, saw things I was blind to working with a screen. What the poor thing refuses to understand after a summer of near neglect, of sporadic encounters admittedly too few and far between, of keeping other work on the side, is that it has to wait one moment more.

The other evil, Evil!, it yells at me, work done, some wedding and trip planning taken care of, a card I'm making for my Papa's ninetieth birthday finished, and I'll be all over those pages. What it will never understand is, after all this time, it's a treat. Not the last in line, the prize at the end of the line. Something I can't wait to get my hands on, something that makes me work hard at every other task just so I can get to it.

It tends to forget some days are all about the WIP. There will be more of those now that life resumes normal programming. What we do agree on, what we both long for, is, if only all days could be all ours.