Exhausted. And Stuff.
SATURDAY: Work, then getting hair cut, coming home and watching COPS and America’s Most Wanted. Early night, because:
SUNDAY: (Yesterday) Helped the Sullen One’s grandmama move out of her apartment. Well, mostly out–we got all the big stuff done and into the storage facility. Both His Sullenness and I were pooped afterward. I barely had the energy to come home and watch cartoons. Which the kids liked. I was so tired I actually fell into bed, read a little Orhan Pamuk, and crashed out before the DHM got back from dinner with D and H.
Somewhere in the space of this weekend, though, I finished Fatal Purity (that bio of Robespierre I was so excited to find in trade paper) and The Sun Over Breda, which is (gasp) an entirely new Captain Alatriste story! No swashbuckling in this one, just a dirty story of a dirty war in Holland and the history of Spain’s tercios And of course it’s Perez-Reverte, who I absolutely LOVE.
Next up: Sylvia Plath (probably a bad idea) and a collected Sherlock Holmes before I go on to the great Shakespeare Summer. And of course I am still knocking away at the forensics textbooks.
My week so far looks like this:
MONDAY: Going back over to the Sullen One’s granmama’s, to finish up the packing. Trying to get some writing in. In the morning, before I’m too tired to even blink.
TUESDAY: The Star Wars event at Beaverton Powell’s, with the 501st (Vader’s Fist,) Timothy Zahn, and Steve Perry. (I think, at least. Peter will correct me if I’m wrong.) Trying to get some writing in.
WEDNESDAY: The DHM has kendo. Writing will get done, I swear. For I will be home almost all day, and tearing me away from the computer will earn one black eyes and/or a bleeding stump where an arm used to be.
THURSDAY: I believe I’m visiting Jeff Davis and Janine. Will lay on their couch and drink wine. Precious little writing will get done after about three PM.
FRIDAY: The Andrew Bird concert with Candy. Wish we could get backstage passes. Candy would just DIE.
SATURDAY: Opening the bookstore, and the writer’s mixer that evening. Someone’s at a book sale, so I’m helming the Enterprise for a little while. Translation: I plan on having a long lunch with a glass of wine on this day.
SUNDAY: Die of sheer exhaustion. Perhaps start detox, because once I start I’m not leaving the house for five days except to get groceries and clear liquids. Next week belongs to detoxing and clearing out a few thousand words on the new Kismet novel that is Bugging Me.
Oh, Lord. I’m just looking at this schedule and reaching for the Motrin.
Next week, I swear, nothing other than detox and writing. Of course, the two might be similar…
