The boy cats (Marlowe and Mithrandir) are half-wrestling, half-grooming each other on the bookcase in the window over my desk. They are very sweet and pretty boy cats, and they probably should have been named Napoleon and Illya, given the way they get on. They were supposed to be Marlowe and Shakespeare, but Mithrandir just doesn't have a Will personality.
I'm very tired and vaguely out of sorts and headachy, because the ignominy of my weird shift (I get up at 4 am) is being compounded by the fact that I am cold-turkeying caffeine to see if it will make my feet stop being puffy. (Both my parents are prone to gout, you see.) It seems to be working. I am forced to conclude that I am getting old, and this taking for granted of my physical body will have to stop. Alas.
I have about 250 words of B&I done today, and I'm just too tired to concentrate on it. When the boy is out of the shower I will get off the computer and take a nap. Then I expect we will go for a walk, and I'll come home and work until it's time for NCIS and dinner. I think I can write this whole scene today, if I'm good.
I have decided that will be in something vaguely resembling the physical shape I was in when I was thirty by the time I turn 33. (For those of you playing along at home: a novel is apparently worth the same seven pounds of weight gain that your average pregnancy is. And I've written (mumble) pages in the last two and a half years? Sheesh. It adds up. *g*)
Right. Nap me. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
edit: so sleepy I in fact forgot the point of this post, which is that chancewrites pointed me to this post, wherein it is revealed that my novelette "This Tragic Glass" will be published at Scifiction on April 7th.
Don't worry. I'll remind you.