Meh

Yesterday? I wrote nine pages yesterday. There was no stopping me; there never would be any stopping me ever again. Why would I ever want to stop?

Today? Well, have a guess. Go on.

I finished a chapter last thing last night, which is never good for continuity; I like to finish 'em in the middle of the day, and get the next one rolling before I quit. This next one needs thinking about, which means I need to get out there in the world, at the measured pace that clicks my brain into gear: for yes, I am all clockpunk at heart. At mainspring. Whatever.

But I can't go out, because I am (again) waiting for my copy-edit. If it doesn't come, I shall be wrathy; but in the meantime, I am just, oh, clagged-up and dissolute. I don't know what to do, so I do practically nothing. I tried clearing out my inbox, but I got bored after a couple of thousand messages. I could tidy my desk, but I'm bored in advance of that. I could upgrade my Linux distribution, but I'm scared of that going catastrophically wrong.

A big yellow truck just stopped in the street, but I don't think it delivers copy-edits; it says "Dial-a-Bed" on the front. Um. People are strange.

I could read a book, I suppose. Sometimes that even qualifies as work. I have a book on the Yangtze that features photos of naked men hauling boats on ropes (I peeked). That's my notion of research. But it feels such a shame not to be writing, at the back end of a month where I have written so much. I'm only stalled, not stuck; I don't want to stop. I don't want to be stopped.

There goes "Dial-a-Bed". WTF...? "Help - it's an emergency! I have unexpected guests! Bring me a bed!" "Certainly, sir. Single, double or bunk?"

The trouble with being right on the road this way, is every time a vehicle stops I think that might be it. But there's a bus stop just a spit to the east, a traffic-light just a spit to the west, a park on the other side of the road; I get a lot of stopping vehicles. Bastards. Don't they know I'm waiting for a delivery?

I appear to be live-blogging the wait. This is not good.

*goes away*

Please can I bill the courier for twelve hours of my life?

The copy-edit did - you will be astonished to learn! - not come. I have communed with New York, and butts are to be kicked. They are large butts, and they are to be kicked largely: the company paid for overnight and AM guaranteed, and neither of these good things occurred.

So I was in all day, and as I foretold thee, I have achieved almost nothing. I roasted a pan of cherry tomatoes with rosemary, for soup tomorrow; that's almost the highlight. Otherwise, I mostly poked at Linux. Having finally got myself prepared nerved up to upgrade my distribution, I discovered that the Live CD doesn't offer upgrades as an option, only a clean install or nothing. Which is no use to me (as I don't know how to build a new install next to an existing one, and make both bootable; I know it can be done, it's probably easy, but I just don't know how). So now I'm downloading the full install DVD, which promises to take ten hours or so. Fine, whatever. I don't care.

Why don't I care? Because I finally cracked, at 6.30pm. I went out. Out! And found the world waiting for me, with - as I foretold thee! am I not a prophet in my own land, all unwelcome? - the start of my next chapter in its pocket. It starts with the old man hitting him with a stick, and then the two women join in. With blades. (It's a love thing.) Obviously.

Also, talking of coming out and finding someone waiting, this occurred in my head:

He'd changed his hair.

That was the first thing I noticed. Also he was laughing with another lad, as they came out from work. That was new, too. How long was it, since I'd seen him laugh?

His mate turned off towards the bike racks; he came my way, as I knew he would. And saw me, sat on the wall there; and knew me, of course, straight off. I wasn't laughing, and I hadn't changed my hair. Hell, I'd hardly changed my clothes. Same old yellow jacket: just a bit shabbier, a bit sadder, a bit more tired. Just like me.

It's just an opening, teen romance for the use of. Sweet nostalgia: how many hundreds of those did I pick up and run with, back in the day? Tens of hundreds, over the years? Well, not tens, perhaps, but certainly ten. Three a week, give or take, for 'way too long: I must have written a thousand, and probably more. I still miss those days, sometimes; it was all a hell of a lot simpler, and I had actual money in the bank and no debt, and I knew the good stuff was all to come. *sighs*

Still, I am not going to pick this up and run with it. Not even for the sake of:

"Come on, then," I said softly. "Give a boy a kiss." (I was, I think, the first man ever to sell a tale of gay romance to a teen girls' magazine. Twenty-five years or so ago, it felt like a triumph.)

Instead, I am going to start my much-delayed chapter. Our young hero is going to be hit, by his friends, until he bleeds: in the interests of science, or possibly costumery. And I am going to drink this bottle of wine withal, until I am too drunk to keep on working; and then I am going to stop working, and carry on drinking. A murrain upon it, I tell 'ee...