The Consummate Writer

Why is it that I can't find my pages? I had them in my office and was plodding through the plot and then the worst possible thing happened. The phone rang. I always tell my children answering the phone and door are optional, but seeing as though I was struggling with my synopsis, the phone was a nice distraction.

I grabbed it and started talking. Now I have a rule. When I'm on the phone, I have to be doing some form of housework. Sweeping, dusting, folding clothes, assembling the garbage--something productive besides just running my mouth. So I'm chatting away about my vacation when the egg timer goes off. That means get off the phone in my house. I go back to my office and--no pages!

What the hell?
Now this is my most favorite phrase in the world. Where are they? I rifle through the junk on my desk. I search the printers and the bathrooms. Hey, you never know. Then I start backwards. What was I doing as I was talking? Sweeping! I go back to the closet. No pages. Dusting. I search the den, kitchen, foyer, no pages. I'm getting frustrated. I go look in the car, Okay. I'd never gone to the car in the first place, but when I'm on the phone who knows what I might be thinking about, but no pages.
I search the laundry room and the baskets. No pages. By now my stomach is hurting and I'm seriously considering running my phone over. I don't need this kind of stress. I can't reconstruct these pages. I can't remember what I was thinking just over an hour ago.

I go back to my office and print the hardcopy pages and sit down, but I'm so upset that I've lost the work, I get up again, thinking the pages didn't just walk away, maybe if I eat, I'll remember where I put them. I stare into the refrigerator, not seeing the pages or anything interesting to eat. I look at the clock. I've wasted a complete hour.
What the hell!
By now my head is hurting and I go lay down. I'm almost asleep when the dryer goes off. I get up bereating myself. If I would just stay focused on one task at a time, I would be fine. My grade school teacher was right when she marked the box 'makes good use of time', no.
I grab the basket and open the dryer, start pulling out the white clothes and out slides warm, crispy white pages. I found them!
I'm thrilled. I leave the laundry, go back to my office and sit down.

Tracey Crawford. . .hmm. It's a toss up between her story or Julian and Vivian.
My phone rings. It's Brenda Jackson! I haven't talked to her in ages.

Another Crawford story or Brenda. What should I do?

cg