Cat mememememe

(ganked from esmeraldus_neo):

You Are a Maine Coon Cat

You tend to be loving and playful around your family and friends. But when you're around strangers you tend to be a bit reserved. You are intuitive. You understand human emotions well. You do best when you are around people. You don't like being left alone.

What Breed of Cat Are You?

Hmmph. I give, as so often, no credence to their analysis - "you don't like being left alone", forsooth! - but still. Maine Coon. If I had a big house and a few acres of land, some woods, like that, then - yup. Maine Coons. And Wegies. *sigh*

Animal Archetype mememememe

( You are only allowed to click through if you just know already what kind of animal I came out as... )

Status

Status: grumpy.

I should be in town right now, having lovely lunch with lovely friend.

When lovely friend phoned this morning, though, to fix arrangements: well, I looked out of the window and saw how the snow was swirling down, how it lay inches-deep already; I felt how cold I was indoors; I coughed and sneezed and felt reluctance like a gloomy weight across my shoulders. When he offered to postpone, in view of both the weather and the unfinishedness of book (which lunch was supposed to be a celebration of finishing), I snatched at it.

And have regretted that more or less since then. 'Specially since it stopped snowing. Gods, but I am such a wimp sometimes...

Still. The unfinished book is another three pages longer, which it wouldn't have been else; and it will grow further, I hope, this afternoon. Which it wouldn't have done. And there will be other days, and other lunches. This is promised.

So. Chicken soup for lunch, instead of loveliness (yes, yes, it is a good chicken soup; it is needful; it is probably far better for me than going out and lunching lovelily). And then more workfulness. Tiresome things, books: 'specially at this point, where the end seems to be retreating almost exactly as fast as I turn out pages.

Dinner

One of the interesting factors in being meteorologically marooned in one's house: one's dinner is necessarily drawn from what's available.

So, then. Baby octopus in squid-ink spaghetti it is, then...

I'll let you know.

Seven pages today

I'm still not promising for future days, this week isn't last week, but still:

Pages: seven. Just. By working later than I usually do, and drinking more. I iz a bad Chaz. Hic!

Words: 2125. Probably all the wrong ones.

Zokutou:

136,375 / 125,000 (109.1%)

Excess: gotta have it. How much longer than long will this book run? I'm taking bets...

Stuff: is happening. Finally. We're trying to chase a fugitive battle, but it rains fire from the skies. People jump into the water. Like that. They'd better stop splashing about and catch up soon, though. Can't finish the novel without the Climactic Final Battle, oh no...

In other news, whatever else is happening or going to happen at Del Rey/Random House, I do still hold on to editor #3. For now.

That's all I got tonight.