Beautiful out there, even if it is 20 degrees. I'm strongly considering putting on my workout togs and heading over to the gym, because if I work out and sit in the hot tub, my gluteus maximum may stop hurting quite so much. (It's still sore from Friday's workout. ashacat really is a pain in the butt!) Also, it's been a biochemically crappy kind of two or three days, and maybe that will help.
After that, I'm unscheduled for Sunday, which means I get to work on The Sea thy Mistress. I need to figure out what work this scene I am currently looking at is doing, other than introducing a character. She needs... well, she needs some convincing of something, and in the first draft I did that bit off stage, and it needs to be onstage now. This was written when I was still figuring out that whole linearity thing, and it's rather chiaroscuro, which is to say what's here is pretty good, but a great deal is left unstated.
Monday, since the gym is a new gym, I get my first of three mandatory/free with signup meetings with a personal trainer. I'm sure I will be greatly shamed by the inadequacy of my physical condition. Sigh.
Perfection is a trap. Life is work in progress, and we manage to get through it somehow. One must be Zen about these things.
(He seems like a nice guy, though, even though ashacat did out me as a writer and give him a greatly inflated idea of my level of fame and skill.)
Speaking of fame, The Lower Hudson Valley Journal News has declared All the Windwracked Stars one of its best books of 2008. Thank you, tiny little local newspaper!
Oh, and now the sky has changed, to gray smoke over higher clouds still lit fish-scale silver from below, and through those layers chips of robin's-egg blue.