Dry Run

The marine layer has returned in the mornings, keeping them cool and grey enough to suit me. I selfishly can’t wait for the rains to come in; I’m just not productive enough during the dry season.

Of course, the rains mean it’ll be worse for protestors and people will be driven inside, possibly catching the plague. So I can wait a while longer. Besides, with all this going on, I’m pretty sure productivity is a thing of the past.

This morning’s earworm is Portugal. The Man’s Feel it Still, which has a kicky groove. And the August Zombie Audio Giveaway is still going, so head on over and enter. Boxnoggin is lobbying hard for morning walkies; I wish I could get him nearly as interested in eating his brekkie or staying in his spot on runs. It would be nice to feel somewhat safer while running again.

I spent the weekend doing housework, attempting to re-wrap some of the insulation on my nerves, and poking at alien romance. I might not be able to put surprise!tentacles in this one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it in another. I’m still not sure this one’s going to turn into anything more than a short attempt–a sort of dry run, if you will.

And I’m giggling into my sleeve because I’m twelve inside. But I can’t work on alien romance until next weekend, because the week belongs to a certain epic fantasy I need to reread some bits of before I start lunging for what should be an attempt to finish a zero soon. It will be messy and full of holes, but what zero isn’t? Epic fantasies don’t really take shape until the second draft, anyway. One more reason why they’re so difficult and draining to attempt.

Write an epic fantasy, I said. It’ll be fun, I said.

I’d be tired even if there wasn’t pandemic and fascist coup dragging at us all. I suppose next comes the moment when I realize the world is strapped onto this rollercoaster and there’s no way to hop off, and after that I’ll be calm. Or calm-ish.

The Prince’s school starts again this week. Fortunately the district chose to go with distance learning; I would not have sent my child into the Petri dish to die, thank you very much. I’d keep him out and let him do his GED before that, for God’s sake. He doesn’t mind distance learning at all; both my kids liked school well enough except for the other kids whose parents didn’t bother to teach them to behave reasonably. Distance learning suits us all, right down to the ground.

I know I’m lucky to live in a relatively sane little bubble, but even here I can see evidence of that thirty percent of racist authoritarians in the population. We’re as well as can be expected; I ache for all the parents who don’t have the luck and resources to do as we’re doing.

I ache for everyone right now, frankly, except for the greedy bastards whose blind grasping sociopathy means almost two hundred thousand deaths and counting as well as the approaching dictatorship.

Anyway, I need to get the barbarian horde to overrun a certain army and almost kill a prince, then get it to the gates of a city and have another prince sent to bring help. (I can hear the Thor and Loki “Get Help” comedy routine in my head now, thanks.) A couple more characters have to die before I can let the barbarians storm the gates. The book is resisting, or maybe I just didn’t see its shape clearly enough earlier.

Ah well. Bit by bit, mouthful by mouthful, the whale gets eaten. Complaining about it does no good after a certain point, I’ve just got to keep chewing.

It’s a quiet grey morning outside, and I hope against hope that Monday will remain this peaceful. I haven’t looked at the news yet; I’m somewhat afraid to. News or not, though, the dogs want to walk and I suppose I should take care of that. After all, they expect it, and I am made of meat so it’s probably best not to argue too hard.

Not at the moment, at least. A single day without argument would be a nice change.

Over and out.