Somewhere between 2500 and 3000 words on "Refining Fire" (the current chunk of the secrit projekt, which isn't actually the current chunk of the secrit projekt, but chunk number eight, but what does it matter, the damned thing wants to turn into a novel anhyway and it is not allowed to be one...) today; I lost track, because there was a lot of editing, and I cleaned out the used-up notes from the work file. A lot of words happened, anyway, and it felt pretty good, because it comprised a significant chunk of story.
The list of Mean Things is too long to even go into, but it starts with sleeping on tile floors and ends with teethbrushing, and if you don't think teethbrushing is a Mean Thing, well, get back to me once this thing hits print. Also, my illustrious cowriter squicked me today. (I squicked her before. We may be slipping in our conviction that we are not horror writers.)
Word, by the way, knows "Gandalf." (ETA: But not "orcs".
) Refreshments included cooooooffee. The cat is bugging me. I wonder if I should start doing the formal Progress Notes again; they had gotten too elaborate and boring, but I could cut them back.
No darlings. They would all be too spoilery.
Pretty good night at archery. My first end on the three-spot was boss, and when ashacat
and I switched to a food-shaped target, we made mutton out of the poor thing.
I need to work on my anchor point and my focus.Also, I wish I had better eyesight. It's as corrected as it gets, but when I squint through the peep, at twenty yards all I can see is bright blurs and dark blurs. And yes, I am using a giant peep.
...That was completely not in English, was it?
On the other hand, all the weightlifting is paying off. I'm going to have to get my bow set higher. I think it tops out at fifty three, but since I don't use it for hunting that's enough. (I would not want to try deer with a bow that light. You'd be following the poor suffering beast for miles. My recurve is only a thirty: that one's a total girl bow.)
In other news, still no final word on Eunice. The garage promises to tell me what's wrong with her by noon tomorrow. Saturday is likely to be a car-shopping day, once I retrieve my maps, flashlight, shovel, etc from the truck.
Alas, Eunice. I knew her, Horatio. A pickup of infinite jest....
Tomorrow morning, I really ought to walk up to the bank. I can pretend that it's exercise.
22..6 miles to Rivendell, because what with one thing and another, I have not been getting enough walking done this week.
This girl is the black eye. She's the bruise on your knee.
She's the ashes of the people that you really meant to be.