The joys of collecting, in two aspects
Jun. 17th, 2006 01:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceIt's good to feel good before midday, to feel you deserve what comes to you. Right now, I'm positively cocky.
I was up betimes, and wrote a couple of pages of The Book That Dare Not Speak Its Weight, to finish off a chapter; then - because I am good, because I am the epitome of virtue - I didn't slump with a mug of coffee and something to read, no. I went into town, bought a couple of Danish (an Americanism, I know, but I like it) and a big mug of coffee, and went through the ghost story for Wednesday, hacking and chopping like a man at a hedge. I no longer hate it so much as I did, tho' it's still too long and all wrong for the venue & the occasion. It even has a first stab at a title now (most stories start with a title; the further they go without one, the harder it becomes to find the right one). At the moment, it's called "Summer's Lease".
And then I reckoned up what I'd done in the last forty-eight hours, which was about five thousand words of fiction, plus the reworking, plus about five minutes of the play; and I thought I was entitled to go home via bookshops.
So I found a book on Spanish and Moroccan, I suppose essentially Andalucian, cooking; and absolutely I do not need another cookbook, I cannot house these that I have, and I could cook a lifetime already without ever running out of new and interesting recipes; but I flicked through it, and it had new and interesting recipes, and...
Well, what it is, I start to bargain with myself, "you can come back and buy that after the gig on Wednesday, as a reward" - but as soon as I do that, I've acknowledged that I'm going to buy it sometime, so it might as well be now, and save the worry of its disappearing later.
So I did; and wandered on through town, and ended up at the Oxfam bookshop, source of occasional Chalet School books; and lo, a wonder! There are a few anthologies for girls, with Brent-Dyer stories in; and there it was, one I don't have, in fairly decent nick for four quid.
This wasn't even a negotiation, it was straight out with the purse and the book goes in the bag. These aren't exactly rare, and Abebooks makes it easy to find and buy them - but Abe steals away the pleasure of discovery: the startled disbelief, the sudden grab, the timorous opening to look at the price, the gasp of relief, the scrabble for the purse, all of that.
I am home and happy, and have started the next chapter. I am exhausted, but indefatigable. I am good today.
I was up betimes, and wrote a couple of pages of The Book That Dare Not Speak Its Weight, to finish off a chapter; then - because I am good, because I am the epitome of virtue - I didn't slump with a mug of coffee and something to read, no. I went into town, bought a couple of Danish (an Americanism, I know, but I like it) and a big mug of coffee, and went through the ghost story for Wednesday, hacking and chopping like a man at a hedge. I no longer hate it so much as I did, tho' it's still too long and all wrong for the venue & the occasion. It even has a first stab at a title now (most stories start with a title; the further they go without one, the harder it becomes to find the right one). At the moment, it's called "Summer's Lease".
And then I reckoned up what I'd done in the last forty-eight hours, which was about five thousand words of fiction, plus the reworking, plus about five minutes of the play; and I thought I was entitled to go home via bookshops.
So I found a book on Spanish and Moroccan, I suppose essentially Andalucian, cooking; and absolutely I do not need another cookbook, I cannot house these that I have, and I could cook a lifetime already without ever running out of new and interesting recipes; but I flicked through it, and it had new and interesting recipes, and...
Well, what it is, I start to bargain with myself, "you can come back and buy that after the gig on Wednesday, as a reward" - but as soon as I do that, I've acknowledged that I'm going to buy it sometime, so it might as well be now, and save the worry of its disappearing later.
So I did; and wandered on through town, and ended up at the Oxfam bookshop, source of occasional Chalet School books; and lo, a wonder! There are a few anthologies for girls, with Brent-Dyer stories in; and there it was, one I don't have, in fairly decent nick for four quid.
This wasn't even a negotiation, it was straight out with the purse and the book goes in the bag. These aren't exactly rare, and Abebooks makes it easy to find and buy them - but Abe steals away the pleasure of discovery: the startled disbelief, the sudden grab, the timorous opening to look at the price, the gasp of relief, the scrabble for the purse, all of that.
I am home and happy, and have started the next chapter. I am exhausted, but indefatigable. I am good today.