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: 2006-11-25 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?