Swordfish and Pennies

I actually had work to do at work today; it was sort of pleasant. I spent about 7 hours on a single project, and it went by quite rapidly. Of course, I knew how to do the project, so there was no stress involved; just tedium. I'll take tedium over stress every time.

My housemate, Scott, is remarkable. I've known him since I was ten, we grew up together, we've been best friends for close to a decade... and he just keeps getting cooler. Tonight, pretty much on a whim, he decided to make a nice dinner.

So we ate grilled swordfish steaks, with a tomato-and-olive ragout, some pasta on the side, plus some toasted almonds, nice bread... one of the best meals I've ever had. Scott's the coolest. I really dig living with him. Lynne helped him cook, and I agreed to do dishes (do you know how hard it is to scrub out that fish smell? you probably do). There's leftovers enough for us all to have a really great lunch tomorrow.

After dinner, Scott and Lynne (devoted scientists that they are) went to work. I considered my options; continuing my slothdom, going to Pergolesi for a not-much-needed pint of Guinness, catching a movie, watching TV, reading that issue of Realms I bought... but I mustered some better impulses.

I wrote.

I finished a story-- 3,400 words, titled "The Scent of Copper Pennies." Took me about an hour and a half to write it, which is a touch faster than my typical rate. This story is the lyric, not-action-packed, thoughtful one I mentioned in a previous entry. Alas, it's mostly people talking... but some stuff happens, and they're not talking pointlessly, so maybe it's okay. I think it had to be told this way.

The story's about the manifestation of voodoo gods, quantum mechanics, death rituals, the colors of mourning, loneliness, and the hingepoints of a life. It deals with a lot of issues that have been on my mind, lately. I don't know if I figured anything out from writing this, but it helped me think things through, and allowed me to look at my present situation from a different perspective (or two).

I'm so glad I wrote. It's been bad, lately, trying to get stuff down, stuttering out a couple hundred words a night, never really catching a rhythm, lacking enthusiasm. It feels so good to finish a draft in one go. I feel like I accomplished something.

Hmm. Writing leads to (temporary) bliss.

That's a pretty damned weird tropism, isn't it?