2 October 2004
Mark points out that I have to write books with these hands for the foreseeable future. This is true. He also notes that if they hurt, I should stop.
...oh. Yeah. That.
Yesterday I didn't type much at all. I ran all sorts of errands and had lunch with DDB (David, but y'know, as long as there's a way to signal one's Davids, I had probably better use it, given the number of Davids we have) and picked Matt (and speaking of signaling...) up from the airport and then came home and made supper for our normal four plus Matt and Mike. They're coming back today and bringing Stella and Roo with them, and it sounded like Dena would stop by, too. So I don't know. Mark and Timprov have both suggested that I could take both days this weekend off instead of just one. The problem is that the book was eating my brain as I was going to sleep last night (I believe I got up and wandered around talking about what I wanted to do when it was done, and I believe it included the phrase "I can go smell stuff," but as I was not what one might call awake, I am not entirely sure), and it woke me up this morning poking at me.
So what is one to do? I'm not sure. It will not go away if I don't work on it, and I'm going to need sleep one of these nights. But making my hands and shoulders sorer is also not the answer. (At least my knees and toes, knees and toes are all right. Silly M'ris.) I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I think I'm going to work a bit this morning, and then make the apple crisp, and then work a bit more, and then finish reading Heat of Fusion and Other Stories so I can lend it to Stella when she gets here. I will try to pay attention to the demands of both brain and body. I will try. There will be people here to take out our dead trees, and there will be people here to hang out with, and that should be some distraction. But not sleeping is not good, and achy hands/shoulders are not good, and I'm not sure what to do. Hmm. If I worked longhand, I'm not sure that would ease things. It would change them up a little, and that might help, but then I'd have to type in what I'd written longhand anyway, and that might be worse than just typing it straight up.
I'm trying, is the thing. It's not easy right now. In a different direction than it's been not-easy before, recently at least. Of course.
So this Mr. Ford: he can write a story. We knew that. But it's still true. Also poems. I've read some of these stories before, but they're worth rereading. Good stuff. Highly recommended. And Mr. Ford in some fundamental ways gets it. The bit from "Preflash" still makes me grin and agree vigorously, which in Scandosotan means, "...yep." A lyricist has been asked why he doesn't do more political songs:
And that is what I know.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.