Sometimes late at night, I wander to the front door and peer out the oval window. The street is bathed in a yellow glow from the streetlight. A car drives by every now and again, their headlights shining into the windows. It’s calm and serene. But sometimes, for whatever reason, the neighborhood has a weird aura. There’s just something about it that leaves me unsettled, makes me check and double-check the locks on all exterior doors. Paranoia? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just cautious.

I’ll head back to bed and crawl between the sheets - still the flannel ones and it’s way past flannel sheet season. I like to sleep with the window open. The chirping crickets make me drift off to sleep. At some point in the wee hours of the night, they stop chirping and everything goes very quiet and very still. This is one of my favorite times. Nighttime when the world is quiet.

I can hear the train whistle in the distance. It’s humid tonight, so I’ve got the window closed. But I can still hear the hum of the AC unit next door and the train. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead and somewhere in the house something creaks as even it settles in the for night.

Nighttime is my solace. It’s the only time I have completely to myself. I left work with a horrible tension headache and sharp shooting pains in the back of my head. I’m trying to get over it now and hope it doesn’t turn into a full blown migraine. And they wonder why I quit. Today just reconfirmed my decision was the right one. I am so looking forward to getting away and back to the peace of quiet of graphics that don’t talk back. The mint and eucalyptus warming neck-wrap is helping some of that tension ebb away. Now if I only had a nice glass of merlot… ah well.

I completed issue 96 of Scars last night and turned it in. HOORAY! I started the next one as well as the next issue of Ransom & Fortune. My lead characters have come to a crossroads in their story (Ransom & Fortune) and I’m trying to decide how to handle it. I’m trying to put myself in my heroine’s shoes for a bit and try to think like her. I have to ask myself some difficult questions and come up with plausible explanations of why she thinks she could love the man who murdered her parents.

I have a busy weekend ahead. I need to get my oil changed in my car, fill up all four 5 gallon bottles of water, grocery shop, do laundry, bake a red velvet cake for my niece for her birthday (note to self: don’t forget red food coloring!), finish the gift baskets for the conference, work on the serials, and polish up my first six pages to submit to a contest. Jam-packed. I’m tired just thinking about it.