Any of the writers out there worked until like… way late and you stopped only because you realized you couldn’t make sense of what you wrote?  So you delete the last few lines of gobbledy-gook and then save, go brush your teeth, wash your face, and go to bed like a good little writer.

Only to get up the next morning and read what you thought was salvageable~only it wasn’t.  Very far from it. 

See, this is what happened last night.  I’m working on a project for Berkley.  The two characters were at a… ahem… heated moment and all was flowing fine.

Then I come to this like about how the heroine hadn’t ever felt like this, at least not since (fill in the blank).  Uh, well, the fill in the blank was actually the hero, but this was their first time together.  So how could she not have felt that way since him when this was their first time?

Hmmmmm….?

Can I blame it on being so tired the screen was blurring before my eyes?  Or maybe the fact that I tend to write two, or three, or four books at any given time and maybe I tangled the characters since I was so fricking tired.

I’m going to put a warning on my laptop.

Do not attempt to work while tired.