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Word to Your Moms
Sep. 3rd, 2010 09:17 amSo the fridge is here, finally. Finally. Which just leaves the mattress on Saturday, the storage space clean-out on Sunday, Cal's first day of Grade One on Wednesday, setting up and executing the rug replacement/laminate installation/toilet replacement, plus baseboard repair, fixing the screen on the window, the doors on the hall closet, that area in the kitchen where the cat use to piss, the track-lighting in the kitchen too, and then maybe figuring out what the FUCK is wrong with the wiring in this place generally that apparently makes it impossible to install light-fixtures that will actually work in most rooms...
Oh yeah, and figuring out how to dub a videotape onto a DVD-R using my new video/DVD machine. And getting the necessary upgrades to be able to run my printer from my laptop. And installing all those Autism-friendly apps I wanted the iPod touch for on the iPod touch. And getting some sort of clip which will allow me to use said iPod touch like an actual iPod. And writing to Dad. And finishing the short story I'm working on. And...writing a fucking book, all at the same time.
Every day, my Mom calls me with a list. Every day, that list gets longer. Every day I do the laundry, the dishes, organize, clean up. Every day I remember five things I should have done a month ago, like cleaned the tub, or mopped the floors. Or bought freaking penny-rolls, so I don't have a jar-full of pennies for Cal to pull down and spill all over the floor.
The last couple of days he's been sort of sweet but really tired, intermittently running what feels like a fever, but thankfully isn't. Much shitting of the pants on Wednesday, not to mention pissing of the bed overnight. But this morning he was cooperative and happy, ate a few crackers while watching Frasier (Steve's morning drug of choice), got out the door on time. I have high hopes for this afternoon.
In the meantime, I used yesterday's enforced "rest" to write another 1,000 words on "Some Kind of Light Shines From Your Face". Finished section one and am now in the process of putting together section two, while solving structural problems like the relevance of my main character's heritage, how she knows her boyfriend Lewis Boll the aspiring gangster, whether or not we're going to see much more of various minor characters, etc. In a perfect world, I'd like to get this one done and out the door real quick, then return to A Rope... full-time. Chapter Nine is sticking in my gut like a thorn, or maybe a whole knotted rope of same--except that were I to pull it out, I somehow doubt bloodthirsty gods would appear to receive my sacrifice and help me pull the rest of this novel out of my slack ass. More's the fucking pity.
In other news, reading a bunch of stories about the Lovecraftian Apocalypse in a row is, strangely enough, very, very depressing. I bought Cthulhu's Reign mainly for Mike Allen's "Her Acres of Pastoral Playground", which does indeed rock, and am eking my way toward Laird Barron and John Langan's contributions...but man, it's about enough to make you want to shoot yourself in the head before the Old Ones turn up at your door. Fittingly, and yet.;)
Okay, the drugs are kicking in, and I need coffee. Back at it.
Oh yeah, and figuring out how to dub a videotape onto a DVD-R using my new video/DVD machine. And getting the necessary upgrades to be able to run my printer from my laptop. And installing all those Autism-friendly apps I wanted the iPod touch for on the iPod touch. And getting some sort of clip which will allow me to use said iPod touch like an actual iPod. And writing to Dad. And finishing the short story I'm working on. And...writing a fucking book, all at the same time.
Every day, my Mom calls me with a list. Every day, that list gets longer. Every day I do the laundry, the dishes, organize, clean up. Every day I remember five things I should have done a month ago, like cleaned the tub, or mopped the floors. Or bought freaking penny-rolls, so I don't have a jar-full of pennies for Cal to pull down and spill all over the floor.
The last couple of days he's been sort of sweet but really tired, intermittently running what feels like a fever, but thankfully isn't. Much shitting of the pants on Wednesday, not to mention pissing of the bed overnight. But this morning he was cooperative and happy, ate a few crackers while watching Frasier (Steve's morning drug of choice), got out the door on time. I have high hopes for this afternoon.
In the meantime, I used yesterday's enforced "rest" to write another 1,000 words on "Some Kind of Light Shines From Your Face". Finished section one and am now in the process of putting together section two, while solving structural problems like the relevance of my main character's heritage, how she knows her boyfriend Lewis Boll the aspiring gangster, whether or not we're going to see much more of various minor characters, etc. In a perfect world, I'd like to get this one done and out the door real quick, then return to A Rope... full-time. Chapter Nine is sticking in my gut like a thorn, or maybe a whole knotted rope of same--except that were I to pull it out, I somehow doubt bloodthirsty gods would appear to receive my sacrifice and help me pull the rest of this novel out of my slack ass. More's the fucking pity.
In other news, reading a bunch of stories about the Lovecraftian Apocalypse in a row is, strangely enough, very, very depressing. I bought Cthulhu's Reign mainly for Mike Allen's "Her Acres of Pastoral Playground", which does indeed rock, and am eking my way toward Laird Barron and John Langan's contributions...but man, it's about enough to make you want to shoot yourself in the head before the Old Ones turn up at your door. Fittingly, and yet.;)
Okay, the drugs are kicking in, and I need coffee. Back at it.
