My husband is playing a video game where heavy metal music figures heavily. The main character, voiced by Jack Black but not funny, which is a crying shame, is a roadie. Music plays in the background all the time. Once a couple of weeks ago, the game produced some music that sent me Ratatouille-like (I’d say Proust-like, but come on—which one do you think I’ve actually engaged with?) all the way back to my youth.

“Sebastian Bach,” I said.

He flicked through the game a bit, found the music function, checked the song, and went back to his game. It was Sebastian Bach, and my husband wasn’t even a little impressed by that. My talents are being wasted.

Some character died on his watch tonight, and I’ve been combing the hair band Google images looking for the guy I know this character was based on. Skinny blond guy from an 80s hair band? Narrow it DOWN.

And then while I was doing all this Googling, I realized why my next book isn’t done.

Also: work.

Also: everything.

But I’m beginning to think “everything” isn’t going to change. I’ve got to figure out how to get all the things done I want to, even as everything is going on.

I went to an author event with Hank Phillip Ryan a week or so ago, and when I asked her how she got everything done while holding down a full-time (a demanding full-time) job. She said she gave up sleep first, cooking second.

I like sleep. I’ve almost nearly given up cooking already. If only I could give up eating.

I can certainly sacrifice Google image searches to gather evidence for video game arguments. Done. Given up.