Reminder: Today is National Bookstore Day! Go show your local indies some love — I guarantee you, you’ll find far more interesting things to read there than the inward-looking blather that is to follow here.
Word count for 11/6: 695
Total word count: 8329
Slow writing night last night.
I kind of had a feeling it would be when I found myself doing dishes. I hate doing dishes. I’ll do anything else around the house if only it gets me out of dish duty. The good thing is, Greg doesn’t mind doing them, since he forged his heat-proof hands in the fires of an industrial dishwasher at a catering company when he was in high school. I’ve made the mistake many a time of turning on the cold-water tap after he’s walked away from the sink and getting a molten blast of ow on my hands. (My pleas of “Oh god, run the cold water for a minute after you’re done” have gone unheeded for nine years. But then again, you’d think after nine years I’d learn to give it a few seconds before sticking my hands under the faucet. I’m just as much at fault.)
Anyway. I did dishes. Then I made oatmeal raisin cookies, as he’s off to New Hampshire for the day to help his parents move and I was guilt-laden. I need both days of the weekend to get ready for a business trip, so I’m here, at home, while he’s lugging stuff around. Thus, cookies for the trip, and to bribe his mom not to hate me for staying home.
Except for the part where after they cooled, the cookies felt awfully hard as I put them in their tupperware. They were fine out of the oven, not burnt, just the right color. So confused. So now, not only am I a crappy daughter-in-law, they’re going to think I’m a shitty baker. I knew I should’ve gone for chocolate chip instead. Le sigh.
Then, of course, I sat and transcribed my prose-on-a-train into my gdoc while… while…
I’m so ashamed.
While I watched Chefs vs. City: New Orleans on the Food Network.
It’s New Orleans, cats ‘n’ kittens. I am powerless to resist. Even though they had to eat bugs at the Audubon Institute for one of their challenges. They’re racing through the French Quarter, though, and I’m not even watching the show, I’m looking for places I’ve been. I now also very much want to eat at the Acme Oyster House, where I have yet to go after three trips down there (I might be the only one among my friends willing to try oysters. That could be why.) They also ended up mixing drinks at Pat O’Brien’s, and, I sat there thinking, “We sat near that fountain. I know that courtyard. DUDE, that guy’s eating gator bites!”
Yes, my inner-monologue does contain the word dude. I’m ashamed yet again. I blame the 80s.
By the end of the night, the word count stayed at 695. Part of it, I think, is I’ve never told the story from Electra’s point of view before. It seems to want to be in the first person, where Clay’s is in third. Not sure if that’s going to be too jarring to the reader, but I’m not going to fret over it until much later.
I think I learned something about Regina and Clay here, too. Something I always knew, but had never really explored too much until I wrote this (Electra is mentioning that Clay wouldn’t let anyone else carry her, and that Regina would cling to him whenever someone offered):
Funny, I think maybe she loved him best from the very start.
I mean, I knew that. It’s always been that way, even when they were NPCs in my game. But Clay, whose last name is Gabriel, was always the herald to me — yes, his last name really is that blatant a reference. I wonder sometimes if it’s too heavy-handed, especially when you consider the name Regina, but for now, it stays.
However, that line from Electra has me researching John the Apostle now, too. And, of course, since there are so many other heroes rolled up into this little girl, that means looking into, well, Lancelot, probably, and Enkidu, and…
Anyway, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out buying books?