Spinning Wheel
May 7
Bon soir! I'm full of tea. And ice cream. And, earlier, I had French toast and bacon for dinner (mmm). I was at Mama's Royal Café a few months ago, and there was a family at the table next to me, including a maybe 14-year-old French exchange student who'd apparently just arrived in the country; this was his first meal out with his host family. He ordered the French toast, and found it quite amusing. Language is a funny thing. (Hardly a profundity, I know...)
So, I joined fair Sarah's dare. I mean, I am writing a novel, and I am posting word counts anyway, so why not? Every shred of motivation helps, and it's free-form enough that I don't have to worry about meeting any goals (except my own, which is to finish Rangergirl, you know, sometime fairly soon).
I did not write tonight. I truly planned to, but after Buffy I wound up snuggle-bundled on the couch talking to Heather for a while; which is more important than writing anyway. And now I'm too sleepy to do proper justice to the scene I have to write in the novel next, and I don't feel bugfuck weird enough to work on my Excess story (previously unmentioned! intended to be submitted to an urban-weirdness anthology!), and I'm too content to write the Food story, which is all bitter and, well, kind of gross. All this stuff swirling creatively in the air, and I'm not writing any of it. Ah, well. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow; there's always tomorrow (until that last day, anyway, when there isn't; but let's all knock wood together and hope that day's a long way off for all of us, hmm?).
I actually had sort of an unpleasant day, not due to external things (work is still distressingly pleasant; distressing, because I keep thinking it has to become unpleasant at some point, because all the jobs I've had in the past have, so I feel like a medieval serf who finds himself at the high point on the wheel of fortune and knows there's noplace to go but down... in the meantime, I'm enjoying the ride. And with luck, I'm just vastly underestimating the diameter of the wheel, and I've still got a lot of up to go). I woke up this morning feeling greasy-shiny (though I showered last night before bed), feeling ugly and pockmarked, my hair an unmanageable tangle, my available clothing more (much more) dirty than not, the weight of a thousand errands dragging down my psyche, a general sense of uneasiness in my skin. I'm generally pretty comfortable with myself, so this was very annoying, and it lingered most of the day. Damn it. It was better when I got home; I did dishes, made dinner for Heather and I, watched Buffy (and wow. I forgive them the (few) missteps they've had this season. Tonight's episode was very good). I started reading The Deep by John Crowley (my first time reading any of his works; I realize this is probably not the one people would recommend as my introduction to his novels, but I'm liking it well enough so far).
Writingwise, I got a rejection from Chizine; they liked the story, didn't think it was right for their magazine. Story of my life, yo.
And that's it.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 62,650
Words written since last entry: None to speak of.
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