What went before: One thousand seven hundred and thirty-ish new words, and some plotting. Tomorrow is not looking like a good day to write, and in fact, it may be that Tuesday will simply become a Business Day, since needlework is at 5.
I read 70 pages of proofs, go, me.
I did a little more research into the Braiding thing, and I will not be attending. I had somehow had a picture of people sitting in a circle perhaps, braiding brightly colored string or ribbon or yarn, and telling whatever story arose when it was your turn to tell. It sounded nice, in my head, restful, and intimate.
This is actually not what happens. I mean, there’s a bit where people are encouraged to record their stories. But what they’ll be braiding is hair. And the braids made during the session will be incorporated into a braid sculpture created by the leader of the event, and that? Doesn’t appeal to me at all.
So! I won’t be braiding. I’ll look at the schedule to see if there’s anything else that seems interesting, or maybe, yanno, I’ll just stay home on First Friday. It’s not like I don’t have stuff to do.
It’s dark already, here at 7pm Eastern (US), and I’m really dreading the closing in of the dark. After work — right after Coon Cat Happy Hour — was Us Time for Steve and me. We shared a meal, and wine, played a game — or two — or just read together, catching each other up in comments and in silence. I really, really miss that, and I can’t seem to find anything to fill the empty space that is . . . calm and satisfying. It may get better, once I get at least two of the four writing and writing-adjacent projects out of the way, and can read in the evening again. Right now, I can’t do that, because my day has been filled with too many words already, and my head is ringing with them.
Anyhow.
Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. I’ll check in tomorrow.
Tuesday. Blue skies, high, puffy white clouds. Chilly it begins and chilly it shall remain.
Trash and recycling have made it to the curb. First cup of tea to hand. I should find something to eat for breakfast. Eh. Tea and free association first.
The first two pair of jeans I put on this morning slipped right off before I could even put anything in the pockets, so I guess 38X34 is no longer a thing. Happily, I have several pairs of 36X34, which are a little loose, but that’s what belts and tuck-in shirts are for.
This morning, after breakfast, another trek to the hospital, for xray and blood draw. Possibly meeting a friend for lunch and a hand-off that’s been months in the making.
Needlework at 5.
Somewhere in-between there, I ought to do business things and read some page proofs. Check.
Today . . . Today is September 30, the day before The Game officially begins. As you are aware, last year I did not play. As you are also aware, the Openers won.
I am this year enlisting on the side of the Closers, and will commence my participation tonight with: “I am a watchdog. My name is Snuff.”
Who’s with me?
Today’s blog post title brought to you by Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October, 1993, Avon Books.
I dread the dark mornings more than the dark evenings, but only because of loss of light, not due to associations with the change. Already in my switch from right coast to left—and mostly due to a different latitude—the morning comes half an hour later. 🙁 Change of topic: Don’t know whether anyone has ever recommended herein the Thursday Murder Club books. (Sooo much better than the recent movie, despite its absolutely wonderful cast.) The humor and the characterizations are superb, IMO. I was pleasantly surprised, hugely entertained, and eventually comforted by gentle reasoning and true caring. I highly recommend.
The cats let me sleep in longer with the darker mornings, which I appreciate since I’m having trouble getting to bed at my usual bedtime.
Thanks for the reminder about “A night in the lonesome October”. I too am a closer this year and have begun with the introduction to Snuff and Jack this evening!