Maybe it's because Scoob has found a new sleeping spot that is out of sight - he has taken refuge beneath one of the comfy chairs, right by a heat register - but still in the living room. That means his nap-inducing powers (all cats have them) are still in order.
Whatever. Work is at least done for the day: a review of a tough-to-watch play (Thom Pain) and a couple of likely not-frothy-enough promo pieces for Lavender. The later two, innocent seeming at the outset, ate up a good chunk of the morning as I tried to be clever and informative on subjects that were dictated by those above me. It's not the easiest way to write, but bills have to be paid and I'd still rather write than do a day job (note, day job starts is 25 days; bugger).
I continue to soldier on through Winter's Heart, which has at least gotten to a more interesting space and introduced a character that was prophesied five or six books ago. And the end is in sight. I keep telling myself that, and looking forward to short novels that aren't part of anything epic.
Oh, oh, the Trap Door cat has emerged from his hiding spot. Here comes the hard sell.
No comments:
Post a Comment