Well, I dunno
Aug. 31st, 2012 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI might be mighty today, and clean the kitchen. (I don't expect to cook tonight. That always makes a good day for kitchen-cleaning: I hate the sense of putting all that work to immediate waste, when I clean and then cook instant after, and make all messy again. Which is, yeah, why I don't clean the kitchen very often.)
I might be mightily mighty, and sort the fridge out too. I don't have a handle on the fridge yet. It's like the kitchen surfaces: there's much more of it than I had before, and it just fills up with stuff so there's never anywhere to put anything. This drives me crazy.
On the other hand, I could work. It's no good suggesting that I might do both; bad money drives out good. If today is a race day, then it's a chance for the mystery to come back against the YA, which just pushed its nose ahead yesterday. Or I could work on something else while I mull over storylines for both of those, get them both in a fit state to make a real race of it. At the moment I'm following my usual casual pattern of discovery; yesterday a vague desire to have fabrics for sale in a market - fine enough that the heroine is shy of touching them with her work-roughened hands, which was the whole point of the thought - led to a whole thing about mulberry trees and silkworms and cottage industries and, yeah. Not so ideal for a swift-paced YA, probably. (But! The Martian silk industry! In what universe is this not fun to discover?)
Anyway. I could do any of these things; I cannot do them all. Or I could just dither and fret and not do much of anything. I have much to fret about, mostly money and career and teef (my teef, I realise, are like Carthage: dentitio delenda est). Obviously these things are much improved by dither and fret, oh yes.
It occurred to me earlier that my interior monologue has pretty much become a series of blog posts, most of which I do not actually post. I suppose I used always to be talking to myself, inside; now, O my internets, I am mostly talking to you. Yes, people, the inside of my head is just like this now, and it's your fault. Before LJ, I was much less ... I don't know, vocative? Declamatory? I tended at least not to address myself as if I were a public meeting.
I might be mightily mighty, and sort the fridge out too. I don't have a handle on the fridge yet. It's like the kitchen surfaces: there's much more of it than I had before, and it just fills up with stuff so there's never anywhere to put anything. This drives me crazy.
On the other hand, I could work. It's no good suggesting that I might do both; bad money drives out good. If today is a race day, then it's a chance for the mystery to come back against the YA, which just pushed its nose ahead yesterday. Or I could work on something else while I mull over storylines for both of those, get them both in a fit state to make a real race of it. At the moment I'm following my usual casual pattern of discovery; yesterday a vague desire to have fabrics for sale in a market - fine enough that the heroine is shy of touching them with her work-roughened hands, which was the whole point of the thought - led to a whole thing about mulberry trees and silkworms and cottage industries and, yeah. Not so ideal for a swift-paced YA, probably. (But! The Martian silk industry! In what universe is this not fun to discover?)
Anyway. I could do any of these things; I cannot do them all. Or I could just dither and fret and not do much of anything. I have much to fret about, mostly money and career and teef (my teef, I realise, are like Carthage: dentitio delenda est). Obviously these things are much improved by dither and fret, oh yes.
It occurred to me earlier that my interior monologue has pretty much become a series of blog posts, most of which I do not actually post. I suppose I used always to be talking to myself, inside; now, O my internets, I am mostly talking to you. Yes, people, the inside of my head is just like this now, and it's your fault. Before LJ, I was much less ... I don't know, vocative? Declamatory? I tended at least not to address myself as if I were a public meeting.