What went before: One thousand two hundred seventy-three new words today, bringing the WIP entire to +/- 61,750.
Trooper has not eaten so very much today, and he several times came to me, crying, but it wasn’t food OR cuddles that he wanted. I tried brushing him (very carefully, with a slicker brush; his fur’s gotten so thin, I’m afraid I’ll scratch him), and he purred. Then he jumped down and fell asleep with all the rest of the cats, in or near one of the open windows.
It’s almost Happy Hour, after which I have another couple things to do, but basically, it’s Quittin’ Time.
Everybody stay safe; I’ll see you tomorrow.
SNIPPET:
Anthora pressed her lips together. Val Con turned to stare at her.
“Hold. Is this what I was scolded most soundly for doing on behalf of my lifemate?”
“Yes,” Anthora said, sounded goaded. “But you had done it stupidly.”
Thursday. Sunny and going to be warmer. Station air is on.
Yep, up at 6 again, though I did successfully repel borders at 4.
Today, we bake bread. The ingredients have been measured and are coming up to room temperature while I eat some vanilla skyr, drink my first cup of tea, and update the internets on the doings here at the Cat Farm and Confusion Factory.
After two “good” days in a row, Trooper again refused his gravy-with-meds. I foresee a long and fretful day, though he’s sleeping in the copilot’s chair right now.
The other cats are about. Firefly is overlooking the front garden and lawn. Rook is hanging out in front of the pantry, in case I open it again. He’s *fascinated* by the Wall that Opens. I’m not sure where Tali’s got to, which probably means she’s in a window, behind the curtains.
I didn’t manage to make either of my phone calls yesterday, and, honestly? It’s not looking good for today, though it occurs to me that I might be able to send an email to one of them. I can manage that.
Sigh. Raise your hand if you hate making phone calls.
What else? Oh. I need to add (at least) one thing to the scene I wrote yesterday, and go back a couple scenes to place Mr. Foreshadow.
Ah. Tali arrives in a burst of skitter-scramble-bam! She’s found a spring to play with. Rookie is now under the standing desk, which is in the UP position, pouting because I didn’t give him /a/n/y /o/f my cup of skyr.
Aside the bread, and my duty to the cats, and that maybe-email, that’s all I have on the list of chores. So, hoping to write another scene this afternoon.
What’re you doing today?
Today’s blog post brought to you by Mr. Glenn Frey, “Smuggler’s Blues”
Last night, I had help getting ready for bed:
*raises hand* I would much rather be able to communicate in the written word, even though — as I constantly told my coworkers — “I’m not a writer, I’m an editor!” As far as I can tell, making phone calls triggers the same sort of social anxiety in me as does meeting new people. This has even caused a lapse in a couple of my friendships because the friends are on the other end of an imaginary spectrum where they would so much prefer the phone calls that they do not communicate in the written word (whereas I have a tendency to write a wall of text in an iMessage).
Oh, yeah. Email and the internet really set me free. FINALLY, I could *really* communicate. I had used to think that the phone thing was Just Me (and I was a secretary for many years, which included answering the phone, talking on the phone, making calls and talking on the phone. I would usually write down what I wanted to say before making calls), because of the whole Not Talking until Very Late and then the word-order problem/speech impediment. But it turns out that LOTS of people hate telephones — or at least making calls.