A day in the life
Nov. 24th, 2006 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceTwenty-four hours ago, my poor sick bewildered body and I left this house and went into town: a little reluctantly, a little nervously, but we went.
We were going to an art lecture, to be given by my friend Gail-Nina; and as we went I was thinking "Well, okay, this walking lark's not so bad, and the rain is cool & refreshing. I probably won't have any wine, though. That might be going a step too far, after being ill these last days."
Got there, and yup, there was wine; but it was only white wine, and they were very small glasses, so I thought if I just sipped at one, that'd probably be okay. No harm, no penalty.
And I looked at the art, and then I listened to Gail lecture (and so became much better informed about the sublime in landscape) and then I looked at the art again; and in the process of all this, I guess I probably drank three glasses of wine.
And then Gail and I went to the other university gallery, for the launch of m'friend Sean O'Brien's new translation of the Inferno; and yup, there was more wine, and I had drunk just enough already not to worry about it; so we got through a whole heap of glasses, while Sean and other poets read to us, which was lovely.
Then we got swept up and borne away to a Chinese restaurant, by which time I had entirely forgotten to worry about my delicate condition, so there was food and feasting and good cheer and yup, a whole load more wine.
And so home, and sleeping; and waking late, and checking e-mails and LJ, and then remembering/realising that yesterday's sale of a short story freed up another that the same venue had been considering, so I read through that and decided not to fiddle with it and sent it off to Pete Crowther at Postscripts, just in case.
And then I had to head off to the other side of town, for a gig; and got halfway to the Metro station before I realised that I'd forgotten to take any books with me, so came back and grabbed a pile of Blood Waters and set off again, and turned up just in time.
They'd booked me to talk for an hour about crime fiction, and of course I was entirely unprepared (well, I've been ill, miss), and after I'd talked in general terms for five or ten minutes it occurred to me that I was going to run dry pretty soon. Fortunately, someone interrupted with a question about sex and violence, as somebody usually does; and then they were off, challenging each other and asking me to arbitrate and so forth, and I talked about a lot of business-type things that are little to do with crime fiction but useful to know anyway, and everyone seemed happy; and afterwards there was exactly the right number of books to satisfy the demand, so that was nice.
So then I came home via shopping, where I bought a magazine, largely for its recipe for fennel risotto, because it told me something I didn't know (there are male and female fennels! The squatter, rounder ones are male, and generally saved for salads! Who knew? Be honest...).
And now I am home, I am here; and that was twenty-four hours in the life of a writer, and what's missing?
Yup. Didn't write a word. I've been ill, miss. Honest...
We were going to an art lecture, to be given by my friend Gail-Nina; and as we went I was thinking "Well, okay, this walking lark's not so bad, and the rain is cool & refreshing. I probably won't have any wine, though. That might be going a step too far, after being ill these last days."
Got there, and yup, there was wine; but it was only white wine, and they were very small glasses, so I thought if I just sipped at one, that'd probably be okay. No harm, no penalty.
And I looked at the art, and then I listened to Gail lecture (and so became much better informed about the sublime in landscape) and then I looked at the art again; and in the process of all this, I guess I probably drank three glasses of wine.
And then Gail and I went to the other university gallery, for the launch of m'friend Sean O'Brien's new translation of the Inferno; and yup, there was more wine, and I had drunk just enough already not to worry about it; so we got through a whole heap of glasses, while Sean and other poets read to us, which was lovely.
Then we got swept up and borne away to a Chinese restaurant, by which time I had entirely forgotten to worry about my delicate condition, so there was food and feasting and good cheer and yup, a whole load more wine.
And so home, and sleeping; and waking late, and checking e-mails and LJ, and then remembering/realising that yesterday's sale of a short story freed up another that the same venue had been considering, so I read through that and decided not to fiddle with it and sent it off to Pete Crowther at Postscripts, just in case.
And then I had to head off to the other side of town, for a gig; and got halfway to the Metro station before I realised that I'd forgotten to take any books with me, so came back and grabbed a pile of Blood Waters and set off again, and turned up just in time.
They'd booked me to talk for an hour about crime fiction, and of course I was entirely unprepared (well, I've been ill, miss), and after I'd talked in general terms for five or ten minutes it occurred to me that I was going to run dry pretty soon. Fortunately, someone interrupted with a question about sex and violence, as somebody usually does; and then they were off, challenging each other and asking me to arbitrate and so forth, and I talked about a lot of business-type things that are little to do with crime fiction but useful to know anyway, and everyone seemed happy; and afterwards there was exactly the right number of books to satisfy the demand, so that was nice.
So then I came home via shopping, where I bought a magazine, largely for its recipe for fennel risotto, because it told me something I didn't know (there are male and female fennels! The squatter, rounder ones are male, and generally saved for salads! Who knew? Be honest...).
And now I am home, I am here; and that was twenty-four hours in the life of a writer, and what's missing?
Yup. Didn't write a word. I've been ill, miss. Honest...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-24 05:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-24 06:08 pm (UTC)On the other hand, I have discovered An Error in the proofs of 'Bridge', which looked odd enough that I checked the hardback, and yup; it's there too. I have decided to believe that it's one of those errors that get introduced at proof stage, by idiot typesetters correcting one mistake and making another as they go. There is no other acceptable explanation; I mean, y'know, I can't actually have missed it first time round...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 10:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 10:22 am (UTC)Oh, lor'. Veggieporn. I don't need this. I do not...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 10:25 am (UTC)If not, you can always eat it.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 11:23 am (UTC)Also: I have a fine fennel risotto recipe (Claudio Roden's Italian book, I think). If I've never cooked it for you, it's probably because of you not doing fennel.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 12:41 pm (UTC)Also, who is this Claudio fella?