D: A? A, where are you? A, we have a post to write.
A: (muffled) I’m over here.
D: What are you doing over there? How did you manage to get in there, anyway? Is that a – wait, I don’t want to know what that is.
A: I’m hiding.
D: Did they finally finger you in the cookie caper?
A: Huh? Have you been reading crime noir again?
A: Okay, well you can go back to that. I’m good here.
D: No, you’re not. That looks awfully cramped, and I’m not sure your neck is supposed to bend at that angle. What are you hiding from, anyway?
D: . . . You never cease to amaze me, A—
A: Why, thank you D.
D: I wasn’t done. You never cease to amaze me with the depths of your madness.
A: Why, thank you D.
D: (eye roll). Why are you hiding from yourself?
A: It’s either hide or reach through the mists of time and wring my neck. I’m thinking hiding is better.
D: . . .
A: It’s not right, D! It’s not right what I do during hand edits. Why don’t you stop me?!
D: Because it’s really funny.
A: . . . Letting me write notes to myself is funny? Not editing a few pages and then leaving me a pithy note saying “You’ll know what to do…” is amusing?
D: Well, when you say it in that tone of voice, no. But at the time, it was hilarious.
A: It’s not fair, that’s what it is – I don’t remember what I write during hand edits D. It’s like Christmas every time I turn a page to see what I did with it. When I see a blank page, I start to wonder if maybe I was just being lazy. When I see a blank page with a ‘love note’ from myself, I start to wonder if maybe I was really a sadomasochist with a death wish.
D: So that’s why you were yelling at the draft yesterday.
D: Did you fix the scene?
A: (deep breath) Yep.
D: Well then there you go. You knew you could do it.
A: Don’t push it.
D: I would also like to point out that I have as much control over editing you as I do over writing you.
A: I suppose.
D: I mean, you whip out that red pen and all hell breaks loose on the page. I run when that happens A. It’s safer.
D: Yep. Now what are you waiting for? Haven’t you read the part where you told yourself to re-write the first six chapters of the next section? Time to get writing, woman.
A: I did what?
D: You haven’t gotten to that note?
D: So, I think I hear the kettle boiling. Or the doorbell – yeah, that’s it. Will you excuse–
A: D, where do you think you’re goi–
D: Sorry, have to run – it’s been swell! See you, A!
Seriously, I should not leave notes to myself in my edits, even if it is my own personal form of time travel. It’s just not nice, plus it’s a bad writing habit and more than a little lazy. Luckily, it’s fairly harmless (unless I do figure out how to reach back and wring my neck. Then I’m in trouble). What is your worst, funny and harmless, bad habit?