Yesterday, I hit my limit, and muted a few words from my Twitter stream. I just got overwhelmed, and caught myself thinking several times that perhaps the people who voted that malignant mango-colored mudhole in deserve the pain they’re about to experience. The trouble with that is so many innocent people will also suffer, and when I find myself wishing for justice without mercy it’s a sign I need to back away and take a few deep breaths.
Anyway. I put together a “Fuck it, I’m going to the library” T-shirt on Zazzle. Yesterday, in the middle of trying to chip recalcitrant words from my cortex (who would have thought that werewolf smut would fight me so hard?) I got an email saying that a library hold had come in. So I threw up my hands and went to pick it up, and got a few movies to watch and some Preacher graphic novels to read as well. All in all, it was a pleasant hour, and I managed some wordcount when I got back.
The hold was for Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Last American Man. I don’t know what I expected, but only a few pages in and I’m ready to slap the asshole she’s writing about. It’s a combination of how he treats his poor horse and the fact that Gilbert doesn’t even think to ask about said horse that irritates me. Of course, I read Krakauer’s Into the Wild and suffered the same longing. The idolizing of a selfish asshat who goes “out into the wilderness to find himself”, leaving a trail of destruction and suffering among the people who care for him, is something I find particularly repugnant.
So today: a short run with Miss B, more werewolf smut, a short chapter from the POV of a new addition to the Roadtrip Z crew, and maybe, if I’m very good and the gods of plotting while running are kind, a stab at a space-midwife story.
Never boring, this job.
Over and out.