There's not much in a post these days
Nov. 16th, 2009 03:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceWeird techno-bewilderment: how do you teach a mobile phone to tell the time? I can change the timezone, but not apparently the actual hours & minutes, it thinks it knows about those - and it is absolutely wrong. I have it set of course to GMT, where the current time is 15:45, and the phone thinks it's 05:39. Is driva me crazy.
In other news, this has been a day for deliveries, because the nice council workiepersons repainted my doorstep with sticky redstuff. Many doubtless-nice deliverypersons have gone away with sticky red bootsoles, possibly disgruntled; but they have left me with copies of many things, including Wilde Stories, in which I have a story; Hellbound Hearts, in which I have a story; and a couple of new Nightside novels by m'friend Simon R Green, in which I don't have any stories at all but he does.
Mac has apparently decided that he needs to sit right by the keyboard, on the MS I'm working from, and headbutt my hand as I type. This is less than productive, and - cute though he is, with his purring'n'all - he is about to find himself evicted.
Meanwhile, because I really have nothing else to say, here's a little chunk of said MS, the novel I am revising:
There needn't be trumpets. Nor fireworks, though there were fireworks almost every night now. They were gaudy and welcome and superfluous.
Triumph could be a quiet thing, Chung had learned. It could be what came after the fireworks, in the absence of trumpets. Slipping into his bed, into his heart; a whisper in his ear, a hidden touch in the dark, contentment. Contentment could be triumph, indistinguishable.
In other news, this has been a day for deliveries, because the nice council workiepersons repainted my doorstep with sticky redstuff. Many doubtless-nice deliverypersons have gone away with sticky red bootsoles, possibly disgruntled; but they have left me with copies of many things, including Wilde Stories, in which I have a story; Hellbound Hearts, in which I have a story; and a couple of new Nightside novels by m'friend Simon R Green, in which I don't have any stories at all but he does.
Mac has apparently decided that he needs to sit right by the keyboard, on the MS I'm working from, and headbutt my hand as I type. This is less than productive, and - cute though he is, with his purring'n'all - he is about to find himself evicted.
Meanwhile, because I really have nothing else to say, here's a little chunk of said MS, the novel I am revising:
There needn't be trumpets. Nor fireworks, though there were fireworks almost every night now. They were gaudy and welcome and superfluous.
Triumph could be a quiet thing, Chung had learned. It could be what came after the fireworks, in the absence of trumpets. Slipping into his bed, into his heart; a whisper in his ear, a hidden touch in the dark, contentment. Contentment could be triumph, indistinguishable.