That's what I feel like, today. I slept till noon. Didn't get out to doing errands till 1:30...and only got half done. Just a total waste-oid. I did get a bit more done on IF, mainly rearranging some bits in the story in hopes of getting it closer to how it should be, but now I'm confused as to what's where. Not a good way to use the day.
I'll be doing good to finish the first draft by Christmas, at the rate I'm going.
I've been having some odd dreams dealing with moviemaking and bringing someone water, and for the first time in a while I feel as if I was in the dream to its end instead of jumping out of it when I awoke. That's an odd sensation...almost a sense of completion to it. I will say, I'm waking rested and in a decent humor. But since my job starts at 9am, it'd be hard for me to not be up by 8, during the week...so I can't keep it up. Dammit.
I dunno, maybe my vampire pre-life is coming to the fore and I'm wanting to sleep all day to avoid the sun. It and I have never been friends. In fact, the damned thing's given me second degree sunburn more than a couple of times, once even right through my clothes. That was in Hawaii, where I got blisters on the tops of my feet and my back, even though I was wearing tennis shoes and a t-shirt.
Speaking of sun, I'm now looking forward to seeing my short story, "Desert Land", in a copy of "The Florida Review." No money for it; just publication. Which I'm surprised happened since it's such an intense, minimalist sort of story, very unlike my normal style of writing. I had a number of journals turn it down, and I felt it was probably too severe to work as a bit of fiction. I guess we'll see what the general reaction is to it.
Now I've got a friggin' headache. Came from being bent over my laptop while I was doing laundry; I know because it happens every time and I'm too dumb to change my habits to avoid it. I must be elderly, now. I say that because I read an interview with Chris Evans, who said he's getting old because his wrist aches and he gets pains in an arm or something, and I nearly screamed. He's 30 and in perfect shape. By his standards, I should already be in the grave, the gorgeous little shit.
Just for that, Chris, I'm gonna do a picture of you being tentacled (don't ask what that means; you don't want to know -- trust me).
I'll be doing good to finish the first draft by Christmas, at the rate I'm going.
I've been having some odd dreams dealing with moviemaking and bringing someone water, and for the first time in a while I feel as if I was in the dream to its end instead of jumping out of it when I awoke. That's an odd sensation...almost a sense of completion to it. I will say, I'm waking rested and in a decent humor. But since my job starts at 9am, it'd be hard for me to not be up by 8, during the week...so I can't keep it up. Dammit.
I dunno, maybe my vampire pre-life is coming to the fore and I'm wanting to sleep all day to avoid the sun. It and I have never been friends. In fact, the damned thing's given me second degree sunburn more than a couple of times, once even right through my clothes. That was in Hawaii, where I got blisters on the tops of my feet and my back, even though I was wearing tennis shoes and a t-shirt.
Speaking of sun, I'm now looking forward to seeing my short story, "Desert Land", in a copy of "The Florida Review." No money for it; just publication. Which I'm surprised happened since it's such an intense, minimalist sort of story, very unlike my normal style of writing. I had a number of journals turn it down, and I felt it was probably too severe to work as a bit of fiction. I guess we'll see what the general reaction is to it.
Now I've got a friggin' headache. Came from being bent over my laptop while I was doing laundry; I know because it happens every time and I'm too dumb to change my habits to avoid it. I must be elderly, now. I say that because I read an interview with Chris Evans, who said he's getting old because his wrist aches and he gets pains in an arm or something, and I nearly screamed. He's 30 and in perfect shape. By his standards, I should already be in the grave, the gorgeous little shit.
Just for that, Chris, I'm gonna do a picture of you being tentacled (don't ask what that means; you don't want to know -- trust me).
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