Why editing is so import...no, I'm not taking you swimming!

I am editing.  I think I may have to have this printed on a T shirt.  I. Am. Editing.

A serene process, which I conduct with a smile.  In my dreams.

For some reason this is not admitted to be True Writing and is therefore interruptable to an insane deg...what?  Hold on a minute...  No, I don't know where all your socks went.  No, I didn't have time to do a complete load of washing, hang it out, dry it and then fold it away into those drawers designated for underwear which somehow also manages to be located all over your bedroom floor.  Because I. Am. Editing...

Sorry, where was I?  Ah yes.  Editing.  Sitting staring at a screen and wondering why the HELL I ever said what I said in the first place and why my timeline is more wibbly wobbly than a Stephen Moffat episode of Doctor Who, and why...

Hold on.

Look, if you'd wanted a lift into town, why didn't you say so twenty minutes ago?  Well, how can you have 'just decided'?  You'll have to wait until... so what if your friends all go without you? Resign yourself to being a social outcast who never goes to Pizza Hut with all the cool girls - and then you can become a writer like me!

Editing.  Yes.  The story is written and, in concert with my long-suffering editor, I am now tweaking and perfecting, ironing out those little snaggy bits and smoothing my characters down into something...

Sorry about this...

No, I am not going shopping.  I don't care if there's nothing to eat except dog biscuits and Weetabix, I will perform a creative culinary marvel in the kitchen later.  You know, when it's a mealtime.  Or midnight. Whichever comes soonest.  I. Am. Editing.

Repeat after me.  I. Am. Editing.  I am not -

lying on the sofa eating Walnut Whips and watching Midsomer Murders
playing any of the numberless games on Facebook that people keep sending me - why the hell would I want to play 'Farmville' when I don't have time to walk my own dogs and my chickens have taken over the living room?
idly reading my way through my stack of To Be Reads, scratching my legs and singing Lego House under my breath
standing in the bathroom wondering what I went in there for, realising it was for a wee, cleaning the toilet and then going out again, only to come back two minutes later for the wee I went in for in the first place

Honestly. All right?

Now, go away, I've got four Farmville requests, two Walnut Whips and a new Marian Keyes...er.  I mean, I've got to sort this timeline out and these character arcs won't write themselves you know!

This is how I truly appear.  Sadly.  Just ask the postman.