![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceThis is a day off for me. I want us all to be very clear about that.
Which is of course why I'm here at the computer making notes for what might be the next novel. As e-Bear said yesterday, "Books require ingredients and cooking", and thinking-time is working-time, but it's almost always a good idea to be doing something else while you think, because that kind of thinking generally happens at least one level down, at least in my brain.
So, yup. Day off. I am making - at last! after four days of prep - the sourdough loaf (as of now it has risen once and been knocked back, and is now rising again). Its being half-past twelve, I shall shortly go downstairs and make a hollandaise sauce, for I plan eggs florendict for lunch. "Excuse me," did I hear you say? Obviously, this shall be a mixture of eggs florentine (with spinach - except that I shall use Swiss chard, because I can) and eggs benedict (with my own ham, and the aforementioned hollandaise sauce). I'll let you know.
And meantime there is a marathon being run on the TV, and there is some kind of cricket game going on somewhere (aaargh! sob! *is a wreck of nerves*), and there will be Formula One in half an hour (and Ferrari are just so flat and full of fail this season I really don't care, which makes it much easier to watch that than listen to the cricket) and so on, so I predict an easy afternoon of sporty stuff; and I have bought some foolish films to see me through the evening. Yup. Day off. Definitely.
And hence, here I am, typee-typee catchee monkee - or "Scribble scribble, Mr Gibbon," as the king may or may not have said, in a more regal version of the same sentiment. And it's all thanks to something I misheard on Buffy yesterday evening - yay for middle-aged hearing and kids who mutter and slur! My process is apparently all about days off, and what happens in the margins - and it's still damn' hard to take 'em.
Which is of course why I'm here at the computer making notes for what might be the next novel. As e-Bear said yesterday, "Books require ingredients and cooking", and thinking-time is working-time, but it's almost always a good idea to be doing something else while you think, because that kind of thinking generally happens at least one level down, at least in my brain.
So, yup. Day off. I am making - at last! after four days of prep - the sourdough loaf (as of now it has risen once and been knocked back, and is now rising again). Its being half-past twelve, I shall shortly go downstairs and make a hollandaise sauce, for I plan eggs florendict for lunch. "Excuse me," did I hear you say? Obviously, this shall be a mixture of eggs florentine (with spinach - except that I shall use Swiss chard, because I can) and eggs benedict (with my own ham, and the aforementioned hollandaise sauce). I'll let you know.
And meantime there is a marathon being run on the TV, and there is some kind of cricket game going on somewhere (aaargh! sob! *is a wreck of nerves*), and there will be Formula One in half an hour (and Ferrari are just so flat and full of fail this season I really don't care, which makes it much easier to watch that than listen to the cricket) and so on, so I predict an easy afternoon of sporty stuff; and I have bought some foolish films to see me through the evening. Yup. Day off. Definitely.
And hence, here I am, typee-typee catchee monkee - or "Scribble scribble, Mr Gibbon," as the king may or may not have said, in a more regal version of the same sentiment. And it's all thanks to something I misheard on Buffy yesterday evening - yay for middle-aged hearing and kids who mutter and slur! My process is apparently all about days off, and what happens in the margins - and it's still damn' hard to take 'em.