In Which the Author is a Ball o'Fire

[rolanni]

Welp. I was gonna hit the ground running this morning, but -- not so much.

 

I did brush Sprite, who has been avoiding me, and Belle, who hasn't, but who still needed a stern brush-out, and Scrabble, who is a brush-hog this week. Trooper reminded me that I had brushed him yesterday and he's fine, thanks.

 

I wrote some letters, and ate breakfast, and bought books. I was going to be cutting back on buying books. Sigh. For them what's interested, there's a Margery Sharp four-book electronic collection on sale for $2.99; also Trouble in Triplicate (can't go wrong with Rex Stout on the ereader), $2.99. Also got interested in Margaret Gellhorn, and bought a (paper) biography (Gellhorn: A 20th Century Life, Caroline Moorehead); and a (paper) collection of Gellhorn's own work (Travels With Myself and Another).

 

And that should do me for a bit in the book department.

 

*glares at self*

 

*self puts hands in pockets and wanders away, whistling*

 

So, now. I have four handwritten pages which represent the start of the next chapter of Accepting the Lance to transcribe and fill-out; and the outline of my story for Release the Virgins to stare at. Can't quite start firming things until I know the name the person I'm Tuckerizing wants me to use. . .

 

I expect tomorrow might be a bit scattered, so I guess I'd best get to work.

 

No.  Really.