Ice Cream Sunday

Sunday, damp and sullen.

Wrote 1300 words this morning, bringing the WIP entirely to 35,865. More or less. My fingers apparently know more about where this is going than I do. Possibly Steve finally figured it out.

I’ve been listening to various of the Liaden books, and more than once (or twice, or a dozen times) I find myself saying things like, “How did I know that? I don’t know that.” I listen to my colleagues talking about writing and they all sound so controlled, making such deliberate storytelling decisions as they progress. While I? I can remember writing this scene or that, but if anyone is actually making calm, reasoned, and adult decisions about the story, it’s not me.

Yesterday, I made it my business to vacuum and do some minor amount of house pickup. I am today of course achy and ill-tempered. Sarah will be arriving on Friday to do a real cleaning, but, between double-scheduling on my part and the family vacation on hers, not to mention those 10 days when things just stayed where I dropped them (Well. Not the cats. Cats hardly ever stay where you drop them.), and, yeah, there was work to be done. You could sculpt a bobcat from the fur the vacuum took up.

Also, in a Personal Best, yesterday, I dropped my phone on my face, and now I have a shiner.

After that, I did some work toward my writing course, in case anybody actually signs up, which — I fear it’s going to be a very strange course. OTOH, it could hardly be otherwise.

I’m remembering something I read a long time ago, about two writers on a panel — one a professional essayist/news writer, the other another sort of professional who has embraced fiction writing as an avocation. The panel is asked questions like, “Do you rewrite?” and “Is writing hard?” and “What do you do if you don’t feel like writing,” and the fiction writer gives all the Breezy Answers: No, he doesn’t rewrite. Writing isn’t hard, it’s a blessing, a release. If he doesn’t want to write one day, well, then, he doesn’t; there’s no forcing the muse, after all.

The essayist is left in the position of saying exactly the opposite: Yes, writing is hard. Rewriting is a necessary part of the craft. When you have an assignment, that means you have a deadline, so you sit down and write, even if you don’t feel like it.

And the thing is? Neither one of them is wrong. And neither of them is right.

Yeah. Strange course coming up.

So! The cats are in Steve’s office, indulging in a Sunday afternoon nap. I’m tidying my desk in anticipation of next week, and waiting for the pot of rice to finish cooking before I go downstairs to do my duty to the cats.

What’s going on in your life that’s both magical and mundane?
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Spent some time this afternoon sorting photos, and came to the dismal conclusion that I’m going to have to dedicate an entire box to cat pictures.

Have also happened upon two discussions of weight and BMI in “Elders,” which suggests that said “Elders” benefit from carrying more weight. If true, I will have gone from, Fine, you’re healthy; was that so hard? to Good GHOD woman, eat some ice cream!

This does not, mind, take into account the stated preference of the Cancer Ladies for thinner, as opposed to thicker, survivors.

On the other hand, one doesn’t need to be told to eat ice cream more than once, and I had a banana that needed to be used, so! Banana split it was.

And on that note — everybody have a good evening. I’ll check in tomorrow.