It rained like a sonofagun all day. No. It POURED much of the day, with intermittent moments of mere rain.
Out of the downpour, then, at a Very Early Hour, came the painters. They painted. One of the things they painted was the ceiling and wall along the descent to the basement. For this, since the basement stairs ceiling is a jillion feet high, a scaffolding was erected, including a plank for the painter to stand on while he painted the walls.
Socks, being the safety conscious supervisor that he is, immediately took it upon himself to walk the plank out to the far end, thus proving that it would adequately support a Really Big Guy. He then marched back down the plank to the hallway, gave the painter, who had been properly waiting the end of inspection, a nice, ’round both ankles hug, and work went forth.
Meanwhile, in the bathroom, the boss was ripping the hell out of the wallpaper. Sigh. I’ve hated that wallpaper for years.
Into all this busyness came the electrician, who inspected the (relatively minor) problem of having to move an outlet in the bathroom, and the (rather more complex) problem of the crossed wiring in the bedroom. He intends to return tomorrow, or perhaps Monday, to do what he does best.
Over on Facebook Lauretta posted this link, which I think is pertinent to the repair situation as it unfolds.
The Claims Officer called to let us know that a check has been sent to the Remediation Guy, covering his costs in full. Another, very much smaller check, will be in the mail to us tomorrow.
Late in the day, the auction went over, and the Green Folder is as I type packed up and ready to embark on the journey to its new home, tomorrow.
The inventorying continues. Found a whole stack of soggy cardboard boxes today. And this is after things are dry.
So, the glamor.
Regarding the writing life and the recurring topic of why writers drink…I had meant to point to this a couple days ago, but for some reason, I forgot.
Here, read. I’ll wait.
Back? Was that a good read, or what?
Now, what this is, is that Hachette Publishing is demanding that its authors accept DRM on their ebooks. What a surprise, right? But the wrinkle here is? They’re also demanding that Hachette authors demand that any other publisher those authors may publish with ALSO DRM those authors’ books.
Which is crazy. I mean, first of all, what publisher listens to authors in matters of line, sales, and marketing? Clearly Hachette doesn’t, or they’d’ve dumped DRM some time back. And? Who died and left Hachette Emperor of the Publishing Universe? They’re going to force other publishers (by which, in this instance, Hachette chiefly means “Tor”) to abide by Hachette’s demands — how, exactly?
But! Hachette doesn’t care. Their threat is to its authors: Make this so, or suffer the consequences. I have spoken; go.
I really don’t know what I’d do if I was a Hachette author. Besides, yanno, lay in a whole lot of wine. Direct my agent to pull my Hachette titles? Direct my agent to pull my titles with That Other Publisher? Go back to college and take a degree in accounting?
Wouldn’t it be lovely to sit in a comfortable room, with a cat or two to hand, and a window looking out onto a scene you find inspiring, and just. . .write books, leaving the world and all it’s craziness on the far side of the door?
Yeah, that’s gonna happen.
G’night.