Proof of life and resident art works, here
Yes, I’m stiff after yesterday’s exertions, but nothing’s broken, and that’s sorta the point.
And to the nice person who wrote to scold me, Out of Love, I’m sure: 74. And clearly, No, I don’t know any better.
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Taking a break for lunch and to perform one’s duty to the feline contingent.
I wrote 550ish new words today! And then I took out 750ish old words. And so manuscripts grow into books. I intend to go back after lunch, if only to do some housekeeping with the chapter-by-chapter.
The old woman I live with is apparently wanting to plan a vacation for next year. It’s shaping up into an Epic vacation, by the standards of the Lee-and-Miller Household, in which a week at the ocean was a rare treat.
Apparently, my roommate wants to go to Westerly, Rhode Island.
What’s in Westerly, Rhode Island, you ask?
A flying horse carousel. I’m pretty sure they only allow little kids on this carousel, but that’s apparently OK. There’s also a lighthouse, and a Shopping District, so, yanno, a reasonably interesting location.
My roommate also wants to go to Mystic Seaport, and to Salem, and to . . . Foxwoods? I’m a little baffled by Foxwoods, frankly. Steve loved him some casinos, and I’d tag along to people-watch and play the nickle machines until Mr. Jackson was frittered away, then I’d go listen to the band, if there was one, or to the bar, to get a Coke and read until Steve found me with tales of fortunes won and lost, and we’d eat dinner, or not, and go home.
I’m not at all sure I’d seek out a casino on my own. In fact, I haven’t sought out a casino on my own since Steve died, but — OK, Foxwoods. Why, not? Bound to be something to look at.
I’m not at all sure what else there’s to do between Maine and Connecticut that could be added — ah. Sturbridge? That might be cool.
So! Research!
After lunch.
Oh. And after I get my act in gear and line up a COVID shot.
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Okey-Dokey, then. Tomorrow, I need to write a Whole New Scene, which was not previously written, because? I didn’t wanna. Unfortunately, it has to be written, and, tragically, I still don’t wanna.
Be a writer, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.
And sometimes — most times, really — it actually is. Well. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel like writing the silly thing, and then, as a reward, I can commence into writing Book Two.
Yes, this is going to be one of those.
I did, in fact, make an appointment to get the COVID shot, though CVS did its best to make sure I would not prevail. Take that, CVS! And your stoopid AutoFill, too! So, COVID shot on Monday afternoon, after I finish writing, and if this one makes me ill, it should all have run its course by Tuesday evening. Planning. It’s all about the Planning.
Speaking of Planning — I need to buy a 2027?! calendar. Which I realized when I went to put my tickets into the calendar, as is my habit, only to find that the first ticket is for January 24, and the calendar currently in use finishes up on January 3.
Well. Shopping. Who doesn’t like shopping?
I am being hounded — no. I am being pursued by a howling black Maine coon teenager, who insists, against All Observable Evidence, that he is starving. He used to convince Tali that she was starving, and she’d carry the message to me, loudly, but Tali could be bought off with an offer to sit on my lap.
So — that’s the late report.
Everybody stay safe. I’ll check in tomorrow.