Saturday, November 29, 2003
I feel a little like ass this morning. Dinner last night was superb, but I may have had too much wine and then Spooky and I were up until 4 a.m. playing Primal, and I didn't sleep well.
Yesterday, I wrote 628 words on the "Untitled Novella," a lot more than I'd expected to do, with all the cooking and housecleaning going on. So, it now stands as 3,900 words. And I expect to get nothing new written on it today, as Jennifer has finished her proofing of the Murder of Angels ms., which means that today Spooky and I have to quickly incorporate all her corrections so that I can e-mail it to my editor tomorrow, beating my deadline by one day. "Cutting it close" is a virtue. It'll be good to have the ms. done (first round) and out of my hands, though, as always, I fear the editor's assessment.
Here in Atlanta, it's very cold and bright, and wish it were still summer. Days like this make me miss the lofts in Liberty House back in Birmingham, which were pretty much immune to weather.
It occurs to me that I really have nothing more to say today. And when people have nothing to say, they should cease their talking (or writing).
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