Which has me thinking about writing, and Zeno's Paradox. And the way you are never actually done as a writer, because you're never quite good enough--every time it looks like that goal of being "good enough" is in reach, you jump forward, and realize you've only got halfway there.
So each jump is smaller than the last, but takes just as much energy to make.
Also, it's kind of like hill climbing--if you ever stop pushing forward, you start to slide back.
And yet we do this because it is fun. *g*
In other news, a very cool map of the Global Ocean Conveyor Belt.
Planets are so very neat.
A writing challenge generator, via Jodi.
Words today: 460 (mostly an infobolus on thermohaline circulation, and some mucking about with shuttles and starships and solar sails)
Total words: 41227
Manuscript pages: 168 of 177
Reason for stopping: tired, groggy, and in need of calories. Back for more in a bit.
Tea: black lychee
Mammalian assistance: Mebd sitting on my mouse pad, mouse hand, etc, commenting on the process (Mebd has a big vocabulary: "chirp? blert? chip chip chip? kk k kkk kk k k?! aeiou! mrrr!" Marlowe's is more limited, but he has an English accent: "miow!" Oliver, being a Siamese, is quite quizzical when he can be moved to speak; usually he just bangs on things with his paws until he gets what he wants. And Mithrandir hardly talks at all. He's very shy and sweet and quiet, but when he does, it's usually "mrow? mew?")
Anybody who thinks cats "meow" has never lived with one. And with cats, everything is a question, a complaint, or a command. If I ever write a talking cat, the only punctuation he gets is interrobangs.