Jagged

[desperance]

I guess, when you're on a jag, you're on a jag. A couple of times, these last few days, I've started the day with a snarl, looking at a necessary end-of-work deadline halfway through the afternoon and expecting to get nothing useful done beforehand; and then I've just sat down and done a full day's work in the half-day available. Two thousand words, two and a half, on that order. I am massively content with this.

Right now it's half past three and I have to pack up for the day, because I am going north: not far as the north goes, just to my favourite second-hand bookshop, but without a car it is the devil of a place to get to, and I need to leave in ten minutes in order to catch a bus in order to be there for a meeting at six o'clock. Sigh.

If all goes well, at the meeting and after, then I'll be doing this on a monthly basis. Double sigh. But it's always nice to be offered work. They want me to set up a crime fiction reading group, if they can raise the funding: a book a month, one session in the flesh, in the bookshop, and an internet version as well. We are meeting to discuss the feasibilities. (I wonder what a feasil was, that had the abilities required?)

But anyway, I'm packing up; won't be home till bedtime, more or less. And yet, I have written eight pages and finished my chapter, on the very brink of violence and gore. After 437 pages, it's probably about time.

Comments

[devonellington.livejournal.com]

I'm so proud of you! Have fun at the bookshoop, too. Sounds like a good project.