Box and Cox

I am not convinced that hot-bunking is the way to write a novel. Two novels. But two days ago, I was working on Mars Imperial, the YA; yesterday I was surprised to find myself working on Mars Imperial, the Wimsey fanfic; today I'm not really that surprised to find myself reading through the Wimsey and going back to the YA. I suppose one could keep going this way, turn and turn about, but it sounds odd to me, and so unlike the home life of our own dear Chaz. I like one thing at a time and uncomplications.

Anyway, it's only midday but I have to go off now for more endless extraordinary dental adventures, with -odontists of numerous hues. It is not impossible that when we get home again, I may not want to work.

Or the other thing, of course. That's possible too.

The possibilities are terrifying

Okay, ignoring the debacle that is my mouth, I was just suddenly struck by a thought:

Oh. Maybe it's a race.

Left hand against right hand, mystery against YA, strictly alternating days to be fair and they'll race each other to the finishing line. Maybe that's what they're after...?

I didn't know books could be competitive, except for my time. Not with each other. And I'm still not sure I want to play along, I disapprove of the competitive instinct even in animated matter; but I'm glad I figured that out.

(And it would lend an extra spice to the daily metrics, watching one inch ahead, the other strain to catch up... But I'd be terribly tempted to cheat. Favourites would arise; I've always had favourites. And played them.)