25 July 2002
Yesterday. Lasted. Forever.
There were parts of it that were good and flew right by. When Timprov and I were having dinner and coffee and wandering around Palo Alto. Zoom. Right by. But the rest of the day -- uff da mai. 1:00 was the worst. I wrote Scott an e-mail at -- I swear -- 1:30. It could not have been any earlier than that. I was prepared to swear to 2:00 or 2:30. I got up and did approximately one million things. Sat down. Scott had e-mailed me again, and it was 1:00. Aaaaghhh. And in the morning, there was the eternal drive into the sun. In the evening, there was the eternal drive up El Camino Real. I swear to you, people: the Peninsula itself may not be infinite, but El Camino goes on forever. There's a dimensional rift somewhere. It's not blatant enough to be a loop. All the bits are slightly different, Stroud's instead of Safeway, Border's instead of...well, a very different-looking Border's. But the moral of the story is, infinity is not that bad, as long as you don't have to go to the bathroom.
I'm feeling very, very small lately. I think one of the reasons yesterday afternoon dragged so much is that I was writing a very big book and reading a very big book, and I knew I wasn't going to get to the end of either one any time soon. Just about everything seemed like it was long-term, with everyone who lives here. I balanced the checkbook because I was confident that I could start and finish it yesterday afternoon.
I'm coming up on 90,000 words, which is about how long Reprogramming was in its rough draft. (It's now longer.) Which is a bit daunting, as it feels like everything from here on out is uncharted territory. Which is silly: the whole thing has been uncharted territory. Writing 90,000 words of a much longer book is nothing like writing a 90,000 word book. (Well, very little like.) But now...well, now I'm aware of it. Quite aware. It doesn't stop me from working, but it bleeds into the rest of my life.
Timprov says I'm not allowed to continue this book-lengthening trend, and I don't think I will need to. Which is something of a relief.
Happily, today's agenda contains lots of discrete things. Picking up the skirt to my bridesmaid's dress. Taking out the newspapers for recycling. Calling my aunt. (Aunt Dor, for those of you who keep score with my family. Grandma's younger sister, my godfathers' mother.) Having lunch with David. Making my birthday cake. That sort of thing.
My mom -- who has, I might add, made her own birthday cake for years -- is upset that I'm making my own birthday cake. It just doesn't seem right to her. I think it's because she's thinking of herself as The Mommy and not of me as The Mommy. Because part of becoming The Mommy seems to be making your own birthday cake. I don't mind. If I really minded, I could ask Mark or Timprov to do it for me, but I like baking better than they do, as far as I've been able to see, and I'm used to this recipe. No big deal. Just like it's no big deal when Mom makes her own birthday cake.
I don't expect that to make a bit of difference in her happiness levels on this subject, though.
Well, so. There is an agenda, and some of it is even manageable. Although if I keep adding to it, it'll be collectively daunting. I have enough daunting projects in my life. I'm going to go work on getting stuff off the list now.
And drooling on my presents. Of course.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.