Writing? Was I writing?
Feb. 22nd, 2003 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanWell, a bit. Two hundred and thirty words on Friday. This is not much, but it did solve a vexatious problem, the kind you get when the utterly unexpected happens and your character who was walking down a hall falls suddenly backwards into a rowboat. And it was something to tell Eric, who called heroically even though it was very inconvenient for him, just because he knows hearing from him makes me feel better.
Three hundred and sixty today, so far. I had hoped to get this chapter ended by tomorrow afternoon, but I dunno. I suppose it has its reasons, and I am quite sure that they are the reasons whereof Reason herself knows nothing, no-thing.
Winter has come back. When I went out this afternoon I found no pressing need to put on my gloves, but when I came out of Eric's building, I wished I had worn a heavier coat and brought a scarf with me. I am wearing his spare astronomical hat, which is very comforting.
Friday evening Lydy had her "write to your legislators" party. I hadn't meant to come down, but she lured me. Penny made risotto with thousands of vegetables and an entire bottle of wine, and then Elise came over, primed to write perfect Minnesotan letters despite having been up all night making jewellery.
I wrote to two senators. I don't know if it was turning over the issues in my head, the chocolate, or the hard cider, but my blood pressure went up dramatically later in the evening. Not to dangerous levels, but higher than I am used to these days. Hmmmm. Oh well, it was probably the alcohol.
It was a very pleasant evening. I am completely out of practice in writing by hand. Amusingly enough, Eric had mentioned just a few days earlier that he didn't think he would recognize my handwriting if he saw it, so I took a few little things I'd been meaning to send an appreciative email about and put them into a note on hemp paper instead.
It would have been a better note, and truer to what I meant, if I'd typed it. That's how my brain does language nowadays, written language anyway. Type, correct, change, type, ponder, correct change. Similarly, the letters were not so articulate nor so polite as they could have been if I'd used a typewriter. Still, they got written.
Pamela
Three hundred and sixty today, so far. I had hoped to get this chapter ended by tomorrow afternoon, but I dunno. I suppose it has its reasons, and I am quite sure that they are the reasons whereof Reason herself knows nothing, no-thing.
Winter has come back. When I went out this afternoon I found no pressing need to put on my gloves, but when I came out of Eric's building, I wished I had worn a heavier coat and brought a scarf with me. I am wearing his spare astronomical hat, which is very comforting.
Friday evening Lydy had her "write to your legislators" party. I hadn't meant to come down, but she lured me. Penny made risotto with thousands of vegetables and an entire bottle of wine, and then Elise came over, primed to write perfect Minnesotan letters despite having been up all night making jewellery.
I wrote to two senators. I don't know if it was turning over the issues in my head, the chocolate, or the hard cider, but my blood pressure went up dramatically later in the evening. Not to dangerous levels, but higher than I am used to these days. Hmmmm. Oh well, it was probably the alcohol.
It was a very pleasant evening. I am completely out of practice in writing by hand. Amusingly enough, Eric had mentioned just a few days earlier that he didn't think he would recognize my handwriting if he saw it, so I took a few little things I'd been meaning to send an appreciative email about and put them into a note on hemp paper instead.
It would have been a better note, and truer to what I meant, if I'd typed it. That's how my brain does language nowadays, written language anyway. Type, correct, change, type, ponder, correct change. Similarly, the letters were not so articulate nor so polite as they could have been if I'd used a typewriter. Still, they got written.
Pamela
