Warming the Frost

I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes listening to music and trying to decide what to write about. I could always lead in with the endless theme: I'm tired. That's my secret. I'm always tired. Like the Hulk, only more warm blankets and pillows. 

The listening to music, though. That's nice. I'm alone in the house, since the Junior Mad Scientist is at work, the Little Man is at school, and the First Reader left for work nearly an hour ago. I leave myself in about twenty minutes. But for a little time, I can play music out loud and relax. It's nice. Lawdog introduced me to a singer I hadn't yet discovered, and it's good stuff. I do like a ballad, although last night I was listening to entirely different stuff while writing the Familiar story. I am sorely tempted to come back to that story, by the way. I am fighting with the end of East Witch, and the sequel to Tanager. I have to wonder if writing new stuff is so much easier for a reason? I want to finish those stories - ok, Tanager is a full-on series. East Witch is only meant to be a standalone in an existing universe. 

It's more fun to write the new. It's work to finish what I started. It takes self-discipline. I need to suck it up and get more regimented in my approach. Sigh. I don't want to. I want to just come home and curl up, or do the housework, or... why is it I love to write, especially when I'm fully immersed in a world (like I was yesterday with Familiar) but I resist it so much? I don't know.