Exercise in Direction

The air quality is still awful (169, it says, and higher is NOT better), though there is very little fog. Stepping outside for Boxnoggin’s matutinal unloading-slash-constitutional made me cough, and my eyes are still streaming. I look like a drama heroine who just found out the male lead’s been injured; if I was wearing eyeliner it would be raccoon-smears. Still, near noon the wind should shift to the west and all this nastiness start to break up, and of course the weather folk say tomorrow will bring long-anticipated rain. The air will be cleaned and the forest fires hopefully damped a bit; perhaps we can even relax a little and not be ready for evacuation.

To be absolutely precise, the Chez won’t need to be evacuated but we’re standing by in case friends are forced to. Everything is prepped and ready, and I’ve even baked extra bread. That’s one (perhaps the only) good thing about the weather, I have been able to perform some kitchen witchery. It’s a saving grace.

I’ve hit the part of revision recovery where I want to work on something just for me, so yesterday about 5k of an epic fantasy nobody will ever read fell out of my head. It was lovely to scratch the itch until it bled. Hopefully I’m on track to get back to other work now, too. My ability to shift and recover has been hammered relentlessly over the past few years; I’m not feeling quite my usual elastic self.

And tomorrow’s a release day. Sticking my head in a (filtered) bucket while hiding in a cave seems a glorious idea indeed.

Dawn is virulently pink in the east, almost a “sailors take warning” shade. Boxnoggin does not care about air quality, the entire concept being well above his pay grade. All he knows is that morning is for walkies, and Mum has almost finished her coffee so it’s nearly time. I might mask up to take him around the block, though that won’t help my eyes. The worst is not being able to run. Between this and the recent ankle injury, I haven’t been able to hit the pavement anywhere near enough, and it’s really telling on my mood. I’m heartily sick of summer’s claws still stuck in the hide of the year; I want this over with. At least if it’s raining I won’t choke to death on smoke.

…I probably shouldn’t say that, since it will no doubt force the universe to arrange such a treat for me. Ah well. I’m also trying to not even look at the news cycle, in self-defense. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

Normally at this point in my day I’ve got a good idea of what I’m going to accomplish, whether it be planning or execution. This Thursday, however, I have no friggin’ clue. Maybe I’ll narrate a few more saucy stories; maybe I’ll get a wild hare about podcast structure. Certainly there’ll be a subscription drop, and there are arrangements to be made for this year’s NaNoWriMo. I’ve pretty much decided that last bit will be devoted to book two of the Tolkien Viking Werewolves, so there’s that.

Maybe I’m more organized than I thought. (Yes, you can stop laughing now, that was said with tongue firmly in cheek.)

I’m on the last swallow of coffee and as soon as I shift in my chair Boxnoggin will be beside himself with gleeful anticipation. First coffee, then toast, then walkies–this is the Way, according to him, and woe betide the poor dumb human who interferes with that schedule. Mandalorians have nothing on the guilt induced by a pair of big, sad, brown doggy eyes. It probably doesn’t help that I’m a complete sucker for a beloved canine.

We all have our little weaknesses. Anyway, the sooner the subscription drop is queued and NaNo planning done, the sooner I can sneak back to that epic fantasy and get the main character into trouble at a banquet. Once that peters out I’ll be ready to embark on the next round of feverish work, and not a moment too soon. Apparently I need to be kept off the smoggy streets and out of trouble, assuming that’s possible.

Happy Thursday, my beloveds. The rain is almost, almost here. I often say I can put up with just about anything if I know when it’s going to end, and this summer has certainly been an exercise in that direction. But, ending or not, it still has a few more hits to get in. I suppose I’d better get braced to endure them.

See you around.