Yet another hellaciously busy week. (Though I was thankful of the diverting fun of spending so much of it talking about The Girl in the Glass. Not to mention, we discovered this delicious wine.) And I am beat, if not beaten.
There’s still one more freelance assignment to finish before Monday, but it’s a small one and the interviews are done. And the virus that laid me lowish the last couple of days seems to have departed (for other climes, unfortunately). The snooze alarm no longer exists, according to Le Cat and Le Dog; it may as well never have been invented. Pre-Derby lunch just makes me sleepy, it turns out.
This weekend, I plan to do next to nothing, except read the books I’m reading. I might update the sidebar. I’ve been engaging in promiscuous book behavior, rather than just reading one at a time; this is highly unusual for me. At the moment, it’s three excellent books, Alan‘s story collection Skinny Dipping in the Lake of the Dead (the fucking A-bomb), Fernanda Eberstadt’s Little Money Street: In Search of Gypsies and Their Music in the South of France (beautifully written and charming), and James Morrow’s The Last Witchfinder (delightfully funny and I realize now I heard him read from this lo many years ago at an ICFA — in 2000 maybe?). And the other run of research books with plain cloth covers, footnotes and amazing contents, dominated by Christopher Faraone‘s stuff.
Oh, and yeah, I must get the butt back in the Real Writing chair and bang out some new book pages. I’ve been researching and thinking lots about it and, frustratingly, know exactly what happens next, but I haven’t actually written anything new since I got a mini-flood of smallish freelance assignments. I have to figure out how to balance that better.
But the weather is beautiful, the dog and cat are happy, and life seems long. No worries. Happy Cinco de Mayo.