A Day in the Life by Katherine Pym

 Due to be released July 1, 2017

 Pre-Order Here

Being an author is hard work. Alone work. One sits for hours and transfers their thoughts to paper or the computer. (Don’t forget to save that! Or, don’t let the paper fall to the floor where the dog finds something new to maul.)

Me, if I lived in London during the 17th century

As a result, health problems arise. Stiff neck, sore back. I have to force myself to get up and walk around, return from the 17^th century and look out the window. Go back into my office where the washer and dryer are. Bend over. Try not to gasp when my back twinges. 

While my head’s down at my knees, I think of the main character in Romancing the Stone. 

There’s a pile of laundry at my feet that would rival Mount Rainier. Husband says all he can find are mismatched socks and there are no boxers in his underwear drawer. He’s been wearing the same pair of jeans for a week. The toilet paper is close to the cardboard roll. Should probably change the towels in the bathroom, do the dishes, pick up doggie toys from the floor. Then I hear the garbage truck rolling down the street. Did we put the tubs to the curb? 

The dunking of a scold. Hope she doesn't drown!

I would like to write a parallel universe story, but then I think: I’m living it, now. For hours, I’m in London’s past. Only a jolt of reality swoops me back to the present but here, it’s cold and raining whereas back in the past, the skies were bright with a lovely summer sun filtering through coal smog. 

Blinking, I again see chores to do. But then, I consider doing them equivalent to moving about. Exercise. After all, they say ‘sitting’ is the new smoking. I must keep my body in working order to disappear into the past. Don’t want to turn into stone, with only my eyes moving in the rock face, as if another head – mine – has popped up on Mount Rushmore. 

I let the dog out and follow her since the rain has stopped for a moment. I breathe in the fresh air, so unlike London in the past. The pup runs back to where I stand, her eyes bright. “I’ve done what I needed to do. It’s cold out here.” 

So I let her back in and find my way back to the computer. The laundry is still piled on the floor and the dishes are still in the sink. I sit down to my parallel life in 17^th century London. 

Maybe, I should write a story about the Duchess of Newcastle and her book, the first science-fiction novel ever written, and by a woman, no less. Then, I dismiss the duchess and place my fingers on the keyboard. Soon, I'm lost in 17th century, walking over uneven paving stones or cracked cobbles. Someone in the distance cries, "Sweet tobacco for sale. Fresh from the West Indies. Will keep thee safe from plague and the clap..."

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Many thanks to Wikicommons, Public Domain for the pictures.