In Which the Author is a Ball o’Fire

Welp. I was gonna hit the ground running this morning, but — not so much.
I did brush Sprite, who has been avoiding me, and Belle, who hasn’t, but who still needed a stern brush-out, and Scrabble, who is a brush-hog this week. Trooper reminded me that I had brushed him yesterday and he’s fine, thanks.
I wrote some letters, and ate breakfast, and bought books. I was going to be cutting back on buying books. Sigh. For them what’s interested, there’s a Margery Sharp four-book electronic collection on sale for $2.99; also Trouble in Triplicate (can’t go wrong with Rex Stout on the ereader), $2.99. Also got interested in Margaret Gellhorn, and bought a (paper) biography (Gellhorn: A 20th Century Life, Caroline Moorehead); and a (paper) collection of Gellhorn’s own work (Travels With Myself and Another).
And that should do me for a bit in the book department.
*glares at self*
*self puts hands in pockets and wanders away, whistling*
So, now. I have four handwritten pages which represent the start of the next chapter of Accepting the Lance to transcribe and fill-out; and the outline of my story for Release the Virgins to stare at. Can’t quite start firming things until I know the name the person I’m Tuckerizing wants me to use. . .
I expect tomorrow might be a bit scattered, so I guess I’d best get to work.
No.  Really.

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