Getting a lot of writing done.
The ghosts have settled down, content with the fact that their stories will be told.
The first episode of Pirate Trip is almost ready, and the plot for Viking Trip just dropped in my lap.
Stanley is happy. The Muir Twins are happy.
Everyone is content for the moment.

And I'm pretty sure I need a restroom break, a Diet Pepsi the size of a bucket of chicken...and while you're at it, a bucket of chicken!

A few times a year I have a meeting with a career coach. (Actually, she's my good friend, author Diane Darcy.) A few weeks ago, we met again.

Typically, we stick our noses into each other's careers and take a good critical look at our own. Then we analyze the hell out of it before we come up with a new career plan. We leave the restaurant--I mean, meeting--feeling focused and powerful even though we know our changes will be difficult. This last meeting was no exception.

*Don't worry, Linda, Stanley is still in progress.

But I was feeling a little overwhelmed with all the sequels and plans, so I thought it would be a smart thing to put some series on the back burner--or rather, in the deep freeze, to thaw out and cook at a much later date. Boy, did I feel liberated. The pressure was gone. I had a simple plan to follow. Life was going to get a whole lot easier.

And was I wrong.

I walked confidently into the waiting room, got everyone's attention, then announced the new plan. And while everyone gasped and clutched each other, trying to absorb it all, I got the hell out of there.

I have to pause here to tell you what I meant by "getting the hell out of there." After all, this waiting room is in my head and I can't just go on functioning if I leave my head behind...unless I really leave my head behind. Which is what I did. I thought it would be a wise thing to start taking some medication to help relieve my stress levels. I was going to test the waters and see if I could actually function while taking these meds, and if I couldn't, I would stop taking them. Turns out, I couldn't write a word--whether it was just an imagined block or not, I was dead in the water.

So I stopped taking the meds. It took a couple of weeks for the stuff to leave my system and the crazy dreams to go away--for the most part. Still having some wacky events in my head at night, but I'm back to writing, which is the important thing here.

My mind arrived as scheduled and I boldly returned to the waiting room. I had my new plan in hand and was ready to call all those malcontents to order. Opened the door...and was mobbed.

Characters both alive and dead surrounded me and dragged me into the center of the room. And despite Stanley firing his dueling pistols, the chaos continued. The ghosts of 79 Highland warriors threw chairs of mist against the walls. Ashmoore glared daggers at me while patting the shoulder of a loudly-weeping Sarah who wailed she was too young to die. I protested, since I hadn't planned to kill her off, but my voice was no match for the rest of the noise.

A couple of old women stood at my elbows and explained why I deserved whatever happened though they insisted that, personally, they didn't hold any grudges...even though I planned to close their little tea shop before it ever had a chance to prove itself. 

Monty was no help at all. He sat atop my desk watching the excitement while forcing Jillian and the rest of his clan to cower behind said desk. When I gave him a pointed look, he shrugged his shoulders and said the Muir sisters were right--I'd asked for it.

That was when I really started to worry. It was a dark day indeed if Monty was agreeing with The Sisters.

I gasped and pointed left, then ran to my right toward the exit.
The door disappeared.
I put my back against the wall where that exit had been and braced myself.
After a moment, the chairs stopped flying. The ghosts began righting their imagined furniture, but refused to sit.

Stanley suggested I make myself comfortable and pointed to the desk.
"Move your arse, Laird Ross," he said. "Apparently, no one is going anywhere."

I stumbled into the waiting room tonight just to have a look around. I wasn't planning on writing anything until tomorrow. (I'm at a writer's retreat and the only thing I've managed to do since I arrived is eat and catch up with some gals I rarely get to see.)

So, I thought a casual stroll through the room would get me in the right mindset so I can hit it hard in the morning. I knew that Stanley was completely aware he was next on the docket. I expected to make eye contact, throw him a wink, say "see you you in the morning", then slink out.

But no Stanley.
My gaze skimmed over the chairs.

Other characters appeared alarmed, but none of them said a word. Then I finally picked up on some no-so-subtle head gestures and turned to look at the desk behind me.

Stanley wasn't sitting in the consultation seat--he was sitting in MY seat behind the desk. Neither his slight smile nor his stare wavered. I kept expecting him to gesture toward the consultation chair, but his gaze never dipped. He simply waited.

A wink and a "see you in the morning" weren't going to buy me any time. If I made any move toward a door, I couldn't say for sure what he would have done. So I braced myself with a deep breath and plunked my butt into the empty chair, resigned.

For a long moment, we stared at each other. I think the eye contact alone made me powerless. Certainly, staring at Stanley Winters was no hardship and I could have gone on staring for a while. But he glanced down at his fingers, suddenly, like he was punishing me by rescinding his attention. He steepled his digits, then spoke to them.

"You're going to need parchment and a pen, Mrs. Muir, don't you suppose?"

Mrs. Muir? Really? Demoted is what I felt. 
Inwardly, I grumbled, "Pen and paper? Are you kidding me?"

The "parchment" in question, a white legal pad, was right there by his elbow, but he made no move to hand it over.

"Yes, Stanley," I said, grudgingly. I stood and stretched, then pulled the narrow-lined pad to the edge of the desk. I excused myself and carefully slid the narrow drawer out within an inch of his elbows, snatched a pen, and closed it with a snap.

He never took his attention from his fingers until my butt was back in the seat and my pen was poised above the notepad.

"How fortuitous we are..." he said, his smile much more genuine and wholly more disturbing to any female in the room, myself and fictional characters included. "To know that we are free to work until Sunday morning."

He may as well have turned a heavy key in the lock on a rusty cell door.

I only hope he allows me a break now and then...to pee.

I can usually be found sitting at my uber cool desk at the head of the spacious waiting room. The dark pink, floral rugs keep footsteps to a minimum. Many characters get up and move around but try not to disturb me when they do it--the faster I work, the sooner their turn will come, you see.

But when one of the doors opens, either at the far left corner or the door in the wall directly to my right, I usually know it. When characters appear for the first time, it is usually "on set," but when they come into the room to wait for their own story, they come through the door on the left. When they leave to play out their own stories, they leave through the one on the right. 

Of course, some characters come back through the right side door when they want a revision, when they want to stick their noses in other people's stories, or when their story gets interrupted by a book that is deemed more timely. If they are called back inside because they've been bumped, their noses are usually out of joint--all but the well-mannered Stanley. 

But yesterday, I suddenly became aware that someone new was in the room. I hadn't noticed a door opening, or I'd been too deeply immersed in the final pages of Kilt Trip to hear anything at all. But the fact remains, we have a new character. 

A woman, I think. She's small, wears a dark cloak with the hood pulled far forward. She stands along the left wall, but her attention isn't on me. Apparently she's in no hurry to have her story told. But I can't help worrying that one of my other characters might be in danger. After all, Mrs. Wiggs was able to remove a character from the room. So it stands to reason someone else would be able to do the same.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see...