It was the nightingale and not the lark

[desperance]

Ooh, but it was hard to get out of bed this morning. Haaard. Wanted to stay tucked up and snuggled down - and not just 'cos it was warm in there and cold out here. I am tired of putting books in boxes, and I'd really like to stop. Also, I have frightened myself with my archive. Yesterday I thought I could just chuck a lot of it - 30-year-old teen romance scripts? who needs them? out they go! - but then I was actually looking through some last night, and, um. No, apparently I can't just chuck 'em. I made them, and they are mine, and almost a part of me. Apparently. So now I don't know what to do with 'em again.

(Also, I found a letter from one of my major markets, saying they could no longer accept freelance stories as they had their own in-house writers. At the time, that must've been a significant blow to my income - but I don't remember it. At all.)

In case anyone was thinking of knitting mufflers and sending restorative beef tea for poor dear convalescent Mac, don't bother. The patient passed an entirely comfortable night in the middle of my bed, and has scoffed down his crunchy breffuss with no evidence of sore teef at all. (He'd probably quite like beef tea, mind; and mufflers are just more complicated String; but even so. Don't pamper the little brute.*)


*That's my job.