(no subject)

I'm on a sort of vacation this week, because I realized Saturday, about a step and a half shy of a meltdown, that I am SICK TO DEATH of editing and revising--having done, it feels like, nothing else for the past three years--and that therefore finishing up the last pass through A Companion to Wolves could damn well wait.

So this week has been me doing a lot of nothing. For that particular writer's definition of "nothing" that means "no progress on the things that have actual deadlines and commitments." (Ignore The Sidhe Tigers flirting madly in the corner. It's a tease.) And mostly this week has been genuine nothing. Which means--you guessed it--I'm getting bored. Not quite bored enough to be virtuous (i.e., finish the pass through ACtW), but bored enough that I actually have the itch to be writing again.

And not two thoughts in my head that can be put together into a sentence of fiction.

We all have our own versions of Catch-22.

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In other news--

I used to think that kitten snot was the most tenaciously revolting substance in the world.

I was wrong.

Decades-old floor wax wins hands down.

memo to my subconscious

I accept the fact that I have to have anxiety dreams. I even accept the fact that I have to have the you've done something terrible and you can't take it ba-ack anxiety dreams.

But in future, WOULD YOU CUT IT OUT WITH THE CANNIBALISM?

Love,
me