R: Sharon Osbourne says she and her family have lost their privacy, and that if she had her time over, she wouldn’t invite the cameras into her house.

J: I’m unclear on this.

R: Yes.

J: Was she under some impression that she and her family would get to keep their privacy?

R: Apparently so. Now she has cancer and she’s throwing up all over the place, and Ozzie’s drinking again, and the cameras are in their faces all the time.

J: So what you’re saying is, this season may be less cheery.

R: Could well be.

J: Wow. It’s like Buffy, only faster.

It’s hard to tell which of my babies is growing faster. Claire now looks exactly like a basketball stuffed under my shirt, while Charlie Ravioli has topped the 12,000 word mark and is fast approaching one-quarter-finished. At this rate I’ll have a complete novel draft by November 17th, and a daughter shortly thereafter!

With one exception, my characters sit around drinking coffee and talking incessantly. I can’t imagine where they get that from.

Monitor Charlie’s progress here.

For some reason, everything smells like toast.

R: Where’s the cat? I want to check her for toast smells.

J sighs.

R: She’s gone. She’s been abducted by the conspiracy to impregnate my house with the smell of toast.

J: Is this the same conspiracy that broke in last night and replaced your novel-in-progress with one just like it, only crap?

We love our work. There’s a printout on the wall with a quote from our finance guru Steve: “The market has bottomed out.” It’s dated April 5, 2001.

“Hurrah!” says John, my editor. “Stocks are only three hundred points below Steve’s ultimate bottom.”

“Truly he is a financial visionary,” I say, chortling, and adding with relish: “Steve’s ultimate bottom.”

2099 words before breakfast! I’d like to thank my husband and my cat. I owe it all to the flagrant misuse of the epigraph.