In a noble attempt to not go into mad overtime hours this week, I knocked out of the office around 1 and fell asleep on the futon downstairs surrounded by dust, dead bugs, and notebooks at 2. Whenever my landlady's in town I quit cleaning and hide in my room. The house is in transition now back to its usual empty state and I really should have cleaned last night but instead I sat on the porch with my cat and watched it rain. It seemed like an appropriately poetic and gloomy thing to do. I strive to make my life as much like literature as possible.
Now I am sitting in a coffee shop (the cleaner one) wearing subdued colors so that I blend in with the subdued walls. I am drinking peppermint tea and I hope people think I'm working on the next great America novel that will cut up their world and tape it back together again. Meanwhile, I am not.
Today is exciting because I:
a. successfully pitched a story idea to my editor and he got this gleeful jaw look and said "Go with God my child. May Abraham smile upon your pursuits." Let's hope the funeral homes want to talk because that will be important and I only have three more weeks.
b. Oh wow. It really is only three more weeks, what with the days off I'm taking for weddings (which alone account for nearly an entire week).
c. This isn't actually exciting, but: the gillnet story didn't run today. Sad face. Perhaps tomorrow? I don't know. I do know what will run tomorrow: Regatta ish. Because it has to or people will fuss. Also, I can not forget to call The Commodore. Remind me, please.
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