Well, I dunno

I might be mighty today, and clean the kitchen. (I don't expect to cook tonight. That always makes a good day for kitchen-cleaning: I hate the sense of putting all that work to immediate waste, when I clean and then cook instant after, and make all messy again. Which is, yeah, why I don't clean the kitchen very often.)

I might be mightily mighty, and sort the fridge out too. I don't have a handle on the fridge yet. It's like the kitchen surfaces: there's much more of it than I had before, and it just fills up with stuff so there's never anywhere to put anything. This drives me crazy.

On the other hand, I could work. It's no good suggesting that I might do both; bad money drives out good. If today is a race day, then it's a chance for the mystery to come back against the YA, which just pushed its nose ahead yesterday. Or I could work on something else while I mull over storylines for both of those, get them both in a fit state to make a real race of it. At the moment I'm following my usual casual pattern of discovery; yesterday a vague desire to have fabrics for sale in a market - fine enough that the heroine is shy of touching them with her work-roughened hands, which was the whole point of the thought - led to a whole thing about mulberry trees and silkworms and cottage industries and, yeah. Not so ideal for a swift-paced YA, probably. (But! The Martian silk industry! In what universe is this not fun to discover?)

Anyway. I could do any of these things; I cannot do them all. Or I could just dither and fret and not do much of anything. I have much to fret about, mostly money and career and teef (my teef, I realise, are like Carthage: dentitio delenda est). Obviously these things are much improved by dither and fret, oh yes.

It occurred to me earlier that my interior monologue has pretty much become a series of blog posts, most of which I do not actually post. I suppose I used always to be talking to myself, inside; now, O my internets, I am mostly talking to you. Yes, people, the inside of my head is just like this now, and it's your fault. Before LJ, I was much less ... I don't know, vocative? Declamatory? I tended at least not to address myself as if I were a public meeting.

(Also, weather!)

In other news, it's nearly midday and it's still cloudy out there. And cool. What's going on? Where's my summer gone? It's still August! Is everything broken, or is it just me? Is this too my fault? (I googled for the Authors Guild* this morning, and typed "author's guilt" instead, which pretty much sums me up today, actually.)

*I'm not sure I can actually apply to join a writers' organisation that leaves out the apostrophe, however professionally or financially useful it might or might not be.

Or, of course...

...I could bake a cake.

Why did none of you spot this gaping flaw in my otherwise-perfect planning? Internet, I am disappoint.

As a result of your laxity, I have half-done everything else in a slapdash and heedless fashion. I cleaned a little bit of the kitchen, and I sorted a shelf in the fridge, and I dried a load of laundry, and I wrote a bit of something else entirely, and none of this is satisfactory, and I am settling nicely into my usual mire of self-contempt.

Also the recipe was stoopid about one minor but significant detail - the size of pan required, since you ask - and as a result the cake is kinda flat. I knew there would never be enough mixture, but, y'know. What is written down: I follow it.

Also also, I forgot to buy any cream. Which makes it quite hard to pretend it's a pudding.