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desperanceFor the record: it is not only, it is not even principally the sunshine that I miss. There are many reasons why I wish I were in California right now, and the sunshine is frankly the least of them.
But oh, I do miss the sunshine. Today is jacket-and-boots weather; last night there was a frost in Scotland. In July.
Still. It is what it is, I am where I am. For now.
Right now I am chewing dry bread (no, this is not as awful as it sounds: I may in fact not have any butter, but the bread is fresh sourdough, and I like it as it comes) and slurruping coffee and checking through a PDF proof of Rotten Row. Which, as it is all about the mutability of identity, amused me greatly when I found that the copyright notice asserted that the author's rights had been asserted by her in accordance etc.
I have corrected same, but I was very tempted to leave it.
When I am bored with checking proofs onscreen, I can go to the Lit & Phil and check proofs on the page, as the page-proofs of House of Doors have just arrived. Apparently it's house style to be insane and unsanitary, to break dialogue with one dash inside the quotes and one outside ('The sky -' she put her brolly in her bag - 'is ominous.') I hate this with a passionate hatred, but there you go. House style is house style, and immutable. I hate that too.
When I am bored with checking proofs on the page, I can sign sheets instead, as the signing-sheets for Rotten Row have also just arrived. This I used to do in the pub, until I noticed the, um, degradation after a few hundred signatures, a few pints. Now I do them in the library, and my signature still degrades but not so fast nor far.
Meanwhile I have Mr Peabody's coal train in my head, because I want to write a story about a man who dowses for coal. The only way to shift it would be to go back to writing about the aspidochelone, and let Yo Ho Sebastian earworm me instead.
But oh, I do miss the sunshine. Today is jacket-and-boots weather; last night there was a frost in Scotland. In July.
Still. It is what it is, I am where I am. For now.
Right now I am chewing dry bread (no, this is not as awful as it sounds: I may in fact not have any butter, but the bread is fresh sourdough, and I like it as it comes) and slurruping coffee and checking through a PDF proof of Rotten Row. Which, as it is all about the mutability of identity, amused me greatly when I found that the copyright notice asserted that the author's rights had been asserted by her in accordance etc.
I have corrected same, but I was very tempted to leave it.
When I am bored with checking proofs onscreen, I can go to the Lit & Phil and check proofs on the page, as the page-proofs of House of Doors have just arrived. Apparently it's house style to be insane and unsanitary, to break dialogue with one dash inside the quotes and one outside ('The sky -' she put her brolly in her bag - 'is ominous.') I hate this with a passionate hatred, but there you go. House style is house style, and immutable. I hate that too.
When I am bored with checking proofs on the page, I can sign sheets instead, as the signing-sheets for Rotten Row have also just arrived. This I used to do in the pub, until I noticed the, um, degradation after a few hundred signatures, a few pints. Now I do them in the library, and my signature still degrades but not so fast nor far.
Meanwhile I have Mr Peabody's coal train in my head, because I want to write a story about a man who dowses for coal. The only way to shift it would be to go back to writing about the aspidochelone, and let Yo Ho Sebastian earworm me instead.