Bouchercon is around the corner, and I should be posting cheerful things about the panel I'm on and the panel I'm moderating. And touting my friends' panels, and mentioning how excited I am about seeing old friends. And how delighted I am that Some Like a Hawk, my latest book, is a Halloween book and thus will be fabulously seasonal at the convention. And . . .
Okay, I will enjoy Bouchercon. And seeing old friends. And my panels. But right now I have a head cold and a dead bird in the wall behind my bed and a to-do list a yard long, and I really need to finish the draft of my book before I take off for Raleigh.
The glamorous life of an author.
The dead bird happened yesterday. He started out as a live, if somewhat stupid woodpecker who has been regularly attacking the siding of my house, usually at moments when I'm trying to get another few minutes of sleep. I noticed on Saturday that he'd made a lot of progress and had created a hole large enough that if it's still there by spring, some bird will probably nest in it. It's happened before. So I put out some queries for a new handyman, because the excellent one who fixed the previous damage (after the departure of the VERY NOISY baby birds) is now semi-retired and no longer does ladders.
Then yesterday the woodpecker fell into his own hole. I'm pretty sure it was him, not some other hapless featherbrain seeking shelter from the storm, because in addition to fluttering and scratching inside the walls I also heard the familiar staccato pecking, only closer at hand and louder. But by the time the animal control company arrived, their mission had changed from bird rescue to dead bird removal. Which is less urgent, but will still involve punching one or more holes in my bedroom wall. Fingers crossed that this can be done before I leave for Bouchercon, although the animal control company technician assures me that it will take at least a week for the smell to get bad.
And I've gotten several handyman recommendations. I just need to figure out which one can do siding repairs and drywall. The animal control company technician assured me that they do the disinfecting.
And I can already see the scene in which Meg comes home to find that her father has punched half a dozen holes in her wall, trying to locate an elusive trapped bird. Spike the Small Evil One, will be maneuvering to pounce on the bird as soon as it's rescued, but since this is my book, he will fail, and the bird will take wing and fly out a conveniently open window, though not before shedding a few droppings on whatever Meg least wants to have decorated in such a fashion.
It will be a great scene, but dammit! It does not belong in Die Like an Eagle, the book I'm currently writing. So, Life, will you please stop giving me great scenes for future books and let me finish this one?