Awaying

March 29

8:07 a.m.

One advantage of all this getting-up-early is that it radically alters my notions of what it means to "sleep in" -- it's 8 a.m. on Saturday, and I'm awake, moving around, and functional, and it still feels like I got some good weekend-level sack-time.

Of course, am I spending this good getting-up-early time working on my novel like a good little novelist? Heavens, no. I checked e-mail and read various things online and made coffee and now, bam, it's 8:30 a.m. My future is curiously in flux. Scott might be coming, maybe, to pick us up and take us to Santa Cruz for a weekend of varied and wonderful laziness. And we might convince him to take us to Jed's party. But nothing is definite. Scott offered to come get us last night, but Heather had prior plans, so we asked him if he wanted to come get us this morning instead, and that was the end of our communications. Maybe he didn't get the e-mail, or maybe he's just planning to come get us. I'll give him a call at a more reasonable hour, if he doesn't show up on my doorstep first...

So I'm reading Altered Carbon, which is quite good, and it's interesting that it's set in San Francisco, when I'm writing a San Francisco book of my own. Hell, his protagonist is staying at a hotel that isn't far -- geographically, I mean, it's very far temporally -- from the one where my protag is staying. This delights me for some reason.

I didn't work on my book yesterday, despite valiant attempts. Well, I worked on it, mostly figuring out time-lines and sequences, when I should start foreshadowing, when I should bring back X element that I alluded to earlier, and so on. I just didn't write any actual words. Which I irrationally persist in thinking means I didn't do any "work."

Huh. It's really beautiful outside, blue and warm. I think I'll go sit on the porch with my coffee and read for a while.

9:17 a.m.

Wow. I should do that more often; very nice, smelling the jasmine, sitting, reading, sipping. When I lived in Boone -- in the dim mists of history, back in the day -- I sat on the porch all the time. There was a horse pasture across the road, and mountains rising up beyond, and it was beautiful. I'd sit on one of the bunch of mismatched chairs with my friends and housemates. Here, there's the garden gate, all clambered-over by honeysuckle, and a medium-ugly Oakland residential street beyond. Not so beautiful, though the garden gate is nice, and I rather like the yard the way it is now, wholly overgrown with new spring weeds, though I suppose to keep the landlady from having a seizure we should mow it.

I think I'd like to live somewhere greener. Or at least somewhere where I don't see a highway overpass whenever I glance westward. The urban experience has benefits, but it can be depressing.

So Scott's on his way, soon, and sometime between 11 and noon he'll arrive, and we'll head down to Santa Cruz for beer, coffee, card games, food, booze, and what-have-you. It's always like a mini-vacation, going down there. I doubt I'll get much work done this weekend, but that's okay -- the novel is humming along well, I'm more-or-less caught up on Star*Line stuff, and I don't have reviews due for another several weeks, so I'm remarkably unstressed, work-wise. It's a good time to see old friends.

So I'll post this, and be in touch next week. Ta.

Words written since February 1, 2003: 25,800

Words written since last entry:
None.

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