it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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Stupid stupid stupid.

There's something you yell a second after you realize that you've just pinched the red-hot cover to the gas burner between the forefinger and thumb of your left hand, pursuant to pulling it out of the way to relight the pilot light with a match. You yell it during the sizzle, before the absolute searing agony has a moment to wind its way up your arm, trigger your reflexes, and jerk your hand (which sticks briefly to the black metal burner (which, unlike an electric burner, does not turn red when its hot) ) into the air so forcefully that your left shoulder hurts as if wrenched five hours later.

What you yell is: STUPID BITCH!

Ow.

I have a deep second degree burn on the pad of my thumb and a light second-degree burn on the pad of my forefinger (both about the size of a dime.) I will be fine. I worked my way through three icepacks and various nonscrip painkillers, and I now have nice tight Band-Aids full of lovely aloe-petroleum jelly-antibacterial stuff on them, because they hurt less under pressure.

But still.

Stupid bitch.

Oh, and I caved and notecarded the plot ideas I have for Scardown tonight. I have about 30-40 notecards, which describe the high points on something that very vaguely resembles a plot arc if I squint at it just right. It's not the plot I expected.

But it never is, is it?

It's so bizarre how one book totally resists outlining, but I always know what the next scene will be. And the next one stalls every fifteen steps unless I plan out a plot arc that it can cheerfully ignore.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.
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