(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.

[devonellington.livejournal.com]

Give yourself a few hours off, tucked in bed. YOu've earned it, with your hard work, and you'll feel better.

Amazing, how the story decides when it's done or not done, isn't it?

I hope Barry keeps you amused while you rest up for the last push.

[desperance.livejournal.com]

I hope Barry keeps you amused while you rest up for the last push.

Weirdly, he very seldom comes into the bedroom, and even more rarely stays. He did spend a couple of hours on the bed last night (after I'd hauled out the high-tog duvet - maybe he was cold too?) but mostly he only comes in to play pounce for a few minutes, or else to complain that I'm not up yet. The bedroom is the only room that he hasn't really claimed for his very own. At first I thought that maybe it just smelled too much of Misha - but it's been months now, and I have hoovered...

[mssrcrankypants.livejournal.com]

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

[devonellington.livejournal.com]

Even so, it may still smell of Misha to him.

Felicia died two years ago; however, even though her favorite places have been often scrubbed in the interim, the others still go to them, sniff, turn around, and nap when they miss her.

Two years, and the entire household still feels the loss . . .because, after all, she kept us all sorted. And no one's stepping up to take the Top Cat job.