(no subject)

[desperance]

God, it's cold. Or I am. How shall we tell the dancer from the dance? (Well, the dancer is the hot & sweaty one, lucky sod...)

Whichever, the heavyweight duvet is back on the bed, and I am within the infamous gnat's crotchet of turning the heating on. I'm that cold - or it is. And it's late June. My fault: I told a ghost story to the summer, and the summer ran away.

Also, I have come within twenty-five pages of my projected total for 'River of the World', and find that I am not within twenty-five pages of the end of the story. Not by a distance. It may only be a little distance, but it is a distance none the less. This too is chilly news.

And I've only written a couple of pages this morning, and I want to stop. I want to go back to bed. That duvet: snuggle snuggle warmness.

I am pathetic under pressure. Immortal diamond is immortal diamond; I am carbon-dust.

Comments

[mssrcrankypants.livejournal.com]

More people on lj should quote Yeats. And this: I told a ghost story to the summer, and the summer ran away. is really quite nice--are you going to do anything with it?

[desperance.livejournal.com]

More people on lj should quote Yeats.

On or off LJ, more people should quote Yeats. And Hopkins, and...

I love quotations. You get other people to do your thinking for you, and then you make yourself sound intelligent by a simple act of plagiarism. And of course you can acknowledge the plagiarism without damaging the illusion; then you just sound both intelligent and well-read, hurrah.

And this: 'I told a ghost story to the summer, and the summer ran away.' is really quite nice--are you going to do anything with it?

Uh, the line, or the story? The line is a throwaway, I have no use for it; the story is under submission.

[mssrcrankypants.livejournal.com]

I meant the line--it sounds like the start of a poetic story. Or a narrative poem.