It 7 am and I can't find my pants.
I stand there, in Tshirt, scantily-clad bottom and barefeet on the cold parquet floor. Bleary eyed and blinking in the morning sun, it has just crashed upon me like a thunderous and awesome tsunami. That's why I've jumped out of bed, something I've rarely been known to do.
"Thanks, Hitler" I'll call it. That's it, the book title, "Thanks, Hitler" - it opens up whole new pathways in how I can express my voice and this story.
I find my black velvet pajama pants and dark-rimmed glasses and run off to tell my husband who is already up.
And he hates it. "Sure if you want your book to be totally sarcastic," he says.
Ugh.
"Well, I'm writing it down anyway. It's only the second day of this class."
We'll see.
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