Hobbling Through Habit

Another quiet morning, this one misty instead of outright foggy. Boxnoggin has calmed remarkably, though that could be my own relief at the advent of autumn slopping over onto his sensitive little self. He’s such nervous little fellow–not his fault, just a function of life events before he finally found his forever home. At the moment he’s engaged upon his first morning nap since I’m absorbing coffee at the glowing box in my office, since this is the daily ritual.

Ritual and habit are Good Things, according to most dogs. The world is large and confusing, especially with humans involved, and having rituals cuts down on that paralyzing uncertainty. Toddlers are by and large the same way; adults are only slightly less enamored of habitual solidity. The great innovation of adulthood is learning to choose and hack one’s own habits to get the effects one wants. It’s hard work, what with habit being the best of servants and worst of masters, as the saying goes1.

My ankle is still swollen, and the band of bruising is changing colors. The term flesh fireworks comes to mind, but if I put that in a story I can already hear an editor somewhere screaming2. I can handle the daily walkies, if I take a handful of ibuprofen at the right time. Boxnoggin rather enjoys me having to hobble since that means he gets even more time to stick his nose in various items; I will never in my life be as happy as this dog when he’s salivating over something rancid on the sidewalk. Keeping him from eating random objects takes up most of our walking time, with corralling his enthusiastic screaming at other dogs as a distant but significant second-place activity.

Yesterday held some good work. Hell’s Acre is coming along, and I managed to settle on Cold North revisions. I know the fix for the first big structure problem–which wasn’t a problem per se, just an editorial preference I’ve decided to honor–and today will be for weaving that in. Maybe I’ll get to write a set-piece battle instead of a smaller raid or clash; that would be nice, especially with the wingless dragon involved.

Can’t have a sack of Nargothrond without Glaurung, after all.

I didn’t have a video meeting last night either so I was able to do some more saucy narration–if YouTube gets shirty about the content, I may have to switch over to OnlyFans3. Victorian erotica is already kind of hilarious, but it’s even more so when one has to stop, turn away from the microphone, and ask the dog quietly but with great force if he would please at least consider halting the licking of his own gonads, or taking that activity elsewhere because it’s hard enough to read that sort of thing with a straight face, let alone aloud.

There’s a couple sales this month, so I should probably get the sticky post for them up before finishing coffee. The day’s work beckons, and there’s cold cereal for brekkie instead of toast. Habit is good, yes, but sometimes one must buck it to keep fresh or even just for fun.

Tuesday proceeds apace. I can’t hear the birds because my office window is closed, which means autumn has definitely arrived. It’ll be open later today, don’t fear–Ed and Stede will be able to distract me all afternoon since it’ll be a sunny one.

Some things change, others remain the same, ad nauseam, ad infinitum4.

See you around.

  1. I believe it’s Nathanial Emmons.
  2. …nobody will let me achieve greatness, I swear.
  3. I can’t believe I’m saying this…
  4. Especially on Tuesdays.