imaginarycircus

We gave Bertie a catnip filled toy today and he went crazy. He immediately started rolling all over our filthy floors--chewing and drooling. (My god I'm the worst house keeper ever. And we probably should have gotten a dirt colored cat so it wouldn't be so obvious.) Bertie was having a blast until he somehow got caught in some speaker wires and could not get out. He got very badly tangled, wire wrapped around his neck many times, and was so freaked out he peed on the kitchen floor. David got him to stop flailing and then untangled him. We taped all the wires back behind a bookcase and hopefully he'll stop pulling on them. We've at least made them very difficult for him to get to now. He is happy and in love with the little catnip sock, in fact he is sleeping with it under his cheek.

We ran errands all day and then were supposed to come home and clean. HA! David got sucked into computer stuff and we did necessary financial stuff. I got my annual credit report. So much fun. I applied to consolidate my loans. Wow, depressing. And then I tried to just talk through some stuff in my head about the novel and David shot me down several times. He was probably too tired to listen and I probably should not have bothered--but I have felt so stuck the last week. I just needed to talk through some things and ack. I feel like he has no confidence in me sometimes. I don't think he understands what the mulling process is like and when I just try to vent my ideas because my head is crowded it just comes out very intellectual and not at all about the story. He accused me of trying to find an excuse to give up--which really surprised me because I am dying to find the right way back into writing. It was like a slap in the face.

I was so irritated I ate half a pint of ice cream. Now I feel ill.

I will finish this draft, and I will rewrite it. And if I have to rewrite it a million times over the next twenty years, like that guy who wrote Memoirs of a Geisha then that is what I will do. Dammit. But there is no way in hell I am going to write a boring version, using only half of the story I see because it might potentially be easier. I just hope someone out there will publish it some day even if it turns out to be the bastard love child of PG Wodehouse and Terry Pratchett, as written by a religious psyschopath...

So I need to move out of this crappy mindset. Let's be nice. I tell you what, friends. Drop me a line below and I will tell you why I am grateful that I know YOU. Go on. Let me be nice to you in my own weird little way...

Cheney has a clot in his leg and my completely honest response is, "Good, I hope it hurts. Go recupperate at Walter Reed."