Lilith Saintcrow

Oh, Christ. I’ve gone completely mad.

I joined NaNoWriMo. This November I’m going to write an all-new novel, 50,000 words or more, in a month.

I have deadlines. I just finished complaining about having no time off. Why did I do this? It must be temporary insanity brought on by the actual sleep I got last night.

*headdesk*

It’s Friday the 13th. I’ve heard all sorts of reasons why this should be an “unlucky” day, but it seems to me that for pagans, the conjunction of Freya’s day and a day that echoes the number in a coven should be extraordinarily lucky. I wonder if there are statistics showing Friday the 13th to be an unlucky day in Western European countries, and how those statistics stack up against, say, China and their lucky or unlucky days.

Hi. It’s me. And I’m strange.

I woke this morning in a very good mood. For starters, I actually slept–no tossing around trying to find a comfortable position, no worrying or listening to the ratcage inside my head jiggle as everyone else in the house quietly breathes. This is a rare and wonderful occasion, and I wonder if it springs from the fact that I worked out very hard yesterday, or the Tylenol PM I took, or the beating on the heavy bag I did right before bed.

Who knows? I slept, for once. And it was good.

But then I poked through my f-list this morning and discovered that for the first time in four or five years I had completely forgotten about the PNBA. Even when the Selkie emailed me yesterday to remind me I didn’t see it, being busy getting the kids through the day without disaster.

*hangs head in shame*

I really wanted to go to PNBA too. But October has turned into a busy, busy month. I thought I’d get most of September off. I thought I’d have time to relax in October. Now I’m looking at November cross-eyed because I have *drumroll please* deadlines that month.

No rest for the weary or the wicked, dear Readers.

Tomorrow it’s closing the bookshop, but before then it’s going to see some Masonic hoo-haw. A friend’s husband is having some sort of hoedown or hootenanny or something. (I love the “h” words that can mean either “party” or “crap”.) Sunday I believe I shall mercilessly work all members of this little household to the bone, cleaning.

Even the cats. I don’t mop often, but we have three cats and it’s time they started earning all that kibble. MRRRRowRRRRR!

Today I shall take advantage of the good mood (only slightly spoiled by the idea that I’ve let the Selkie down by forgetting all about the existence of the book fair) and try to get some work done. Actual writing work.

Coffee first, though. Coffee’s always first.

Help me. I just did my monthly post over at the Warner Women blog.

And it’s all about BPAL. I’m addicted. I already can’t wait for my next shipment.

I am pathetic. But it’s all in service of writing.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

I took a much-needed creative vacation last night and went out picture-hunting. You can see the results here. It was a beautiful night, and the Froop went with me since the DHM worries about me out alone at night.

I tell him he should worry for the other guy after dark, but he still worries. Charming silly little man.

Also, there’s pictures from when Christina came to visit. You can see those here. Mine aren’t as good as heres, but I like ‘em.

Enjoy!

I take back most of what I’ve ever said about Leonardo DiCaprio.

No, really, I do.

But only because Scorsese made him act.

I originally thought DiCaprio was highly talented (hello? What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? This Boy’s Life? Even, I daresay, The Beach, because I love Alex Garland‘s books…) but just the wee bit lazy, used to coasting through pictures because the camera loves him. (Dare I mention Titanic? I’ll give you a moment to stop blanching in disgust.) I had made a private compact with myself never to see another DiCaprio vehicle.

But then along comes The Departed, and I had to see it. Because it’s Scorsese. And Nicholson. And Mark-freaking-Wahlberg, who has a gift for comedic timing wonderfully unutilised in the roles he picks and yet still giving him a slippery, knife-wielding excellence most of the time. But most of all, because it’s frocking Scorsese. And I was not disappointed.

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