Bread’s in the oven for the first rise. Next on the agenda is to start the lentil soup for the meal we eat in the middle of the day, which we call dinner. Lunch is the lighter meal that we eat at the end of the day. Or possibly at the very, very skinniest half-hour of tomorrow.
For those tracking deliveries: Just My Type and the CD set of A Night in the Lonesome October have made it safely to the Cat Farm. Still to arrive is The Sleeping Partner, and The Shattered Vine.
Last night, after I was finished with Necessity’s Child, I started reading the contents of the file marked “Steve’s Klamath,” being a chronicle of the life and times of Corporal Miri Robertson, late of Surebleak.
For those wondering what the devil is keeping the woman from getting new words done on Necessity’s Child — new words are getting done, but they’re getting done in existing chapters as scenes shift, expand or contract. It looks like I should have announced these first 60,495 words A Draft. Who knew?
So, anyhow, not much of interest to see here at the moment.
Cat census: Scrabble sleeps with the heffalumps, and Mozart is still curled up in my spot in the bed, now that I’ve had the good grace to vacate.
That’s all I’ve got.
What’s doing at your house?