Five for silver

On my way home this morning, I saw five magpies spruceing up the grass. A parent and four youngsters, I like to think, but what do I know? I saluted, and came on home. And found that the delivery advance for my novel had arrived, only three and a half months after we delivered it. I guess you could call that silver. I'd have preferred gold - if there had been just one more magpie! - but hey. I like silver better, on the whole; less vulgar, I like to think. Style over substance, every time.

Meanwhile I haz a hurty head, and haz done nothing to deserve it. Do not want.

What I have done, I have written 66 pages of the new novel, and I dislike it already, which is a bit grim, given that that's only about 15%. Another 85% of hating. Sigh.

Today I am writing a moment of William Blake, almost literally. We have a tiger, a sleek and shining tiger all under the leaves of life - which is not, of course, Blake but Sayers; but apt. A shining tiger under the leaves is not so far from a tyger burning in the nightly forest. Which is what we have, seemingly. I have no idea why. It may have seemed like a good idea last night. It's starting to feel like a Piper at the Gates of Dawn chapter, a moment of transcendence that doesn't conspicuously lead anywhere, tho' it might enhance the book.

Also it means I need to add something to vol one, but that's okay. Still doable. I may have had some money, but I haven't had any editing yet. Three and a half months, and counting.

I am being sat on and purred at! It won't last; any moment now there will be claws and biting, but right now this is what we like.

Damn' fine pie

I ganked this from cherylmmorgan, and like her I am scrupulously not saying what is on the other end of the link; just, it is entirely worksafe, and entirely funny. Go here.

When in doubt...

...it's okay for your characters to be equally doubtful.

I have not at all figured out what my tyger tyger burning bright is actually for, but I have finished his chapter. Last line:

"And no, they had no idea what it meant, only that they were both sure that it meant something."

There, now. Sort it out later. Or cut it out, if it ends up meaning nothing. It's a thread, it's worked in; it can always be picked out again. Or not.

Or I could always reach the end of this vol in a state of ongoing uncertainty, decide I liked it enough to hang on to it and tell my editor it'll be resolved in vol three. Then I'd have to find something to do with it, whoo yeah.

In other news: my new compost bin has arrived. That makes three, and this one is half as big again as either of the others. Can a one-man household produce enough compost to justify 770 litres of binnage, you ask? Whoo, yeah. Just watch me. I'm actually working on the principle that if I only produce enough, it will force me to break through the concrete and make proper raised beds out in the yard there, because otherwise the yard will just fill up with unused compost, which would be downright foolish.

Mac came out to supervise its installation. In the rain. I have said it before, but he's an idiot.

Now I'm going to clean my oven. One of my ovens. A man can only do so much, y'know...?