In which tomorrow is Monday. Again.

[rolanni]

Could somebody tell me why the life of a writer is believed to be one of unending glamour and excitement?

This weekend, I wrote, slept, wrote, ate, wrote, did the laundry, scrubbled cat belly, wrote, answered a few embarrassingly overdue emails, wrote, signed some books for an SRM bookstore order, wrote, updated the Saltation webpage (only 554 books left for adoption!) and, um, wrote.

You'd think that I'd have something to show for all this industry, but you'd be wrong. The days when I could press out 4,000 words in a day are apparently gone forever. Guess I'll just have to write shorter books.

Here in beautiful Central Maine, we're looking at showers on the overnight, and the possibility of thunderstorms on the morrow (yay, thunderstorms!)

And how was your weekend?

Progress on Longeye:

61,296 / 100,000 (61.3%)

Comments

[mbarker.livejournal.com]

Woke up Saturday, ate, and went to the airport. Sat there. Got on plane, sat again. Got off at Frankfurt, found next gate, sat there. Did enjoy a wurst from the stand, although shamelessly overpriced. Got on delayed plane, sat for way too many hours to arrive back in Japan on Sunday morning. Got off, found bus, sat for two more hours. Got home, unpacked. Went to store, got water, juice, and lunch. Went home. Collapsed for the rest of the day -- apparently the stress of sitting for many hours in airports and airplanes reduces the brain and body to a puddle.

Travel is the great broadener, although which part of the anatomy gets broader is an open issue.

As for why the writing life is considered glamorous and exciting? Life is always wilder on the other side? Lack of knowledge breeds envy and desire? Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?