Quiet Weekend

Mailed the ms of Anneka to Superagent Saturday morning, driving all the way into town to the Main Post Office. I paid money to send it fast. No real need to do so, of course ... but I still have this residual guilt for not being quite on time getting it done.

Then I took the weekend off. No writing. I reread Windflower by the Curtises ... and what a sad day it was when they stopped writing. Scrubbed the floor. Cooked everybody decent meals. Did loads and loads of laudry. Paid bills. Caught up with some of the writing critiques I had put off. I still haven't finished two of the crits yet. Tomorrow, I hope.

I had intended to indulge myself in TV ... but the cable went out. One of those ironies, I'd call it. Comcast took over our local system and does not yet have its ducks in a row.
It would be more correct to say they don't even have their ducks in the same flock.

Anyway. No TV.

I slept late.

The dog has started scratching again. Why am I perfectly certain we have not -- with two complete courses of antibiotics -- conquered its skin problems?
Why would a dog get skin rashes? This is so peculiar.

I dreamed last night about JESSAMYN and the need to reorganize it came to me. I must be ruthless. I must throw stuff out. I must suppress whole subplots.
Attila the Hun of plotting, that's me.

I'll head out to a coffee shop tomorrow. Just have to decide which one ...