diesel buff
Sep. 17th, 2007 08:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I am feeling suddenly ill, which is OK as I have a moment to pause and sit. I made a salad with fresh cucumbers and store-bought lettuce and feta, and cooked some frozen tortellini with store-bought sauce for dinner. Good for me. I have chopped up more homemade cukes and have yogurt draining to make tzatziki, too. which is why it sucks that i feel oogy now.
I suppose dinner, good as it was, didn't agree. Maybe I'll feel better in a minute.
I've just peeled off a panel and a half of wallpaper using nothing but boiling water, a sponge, and a putty knife. I am huge and manly.
At the moment Z is edging the one painted wall, in preparation for my putting on the third coat of paint.
I was totally useless almost all day at work. I really, really, really want to not leave the house much, and sink deep into a writing phase. I haven't done that in a while. In '03 or '04 I spent like six weeks writing 100 hours a week and while I didn't produce anything salable, and was generally miserable in my life, I still look back on that sometimes and think, Christ, what bliss that was. If only I'd known how to write properly, and hadn't squandered it. I haven't had the nerve to be unemployed again, because that was such a bust in terms of producing anything salable. But I had never finished a novel, at that point. I hadn't even really finished a story. I'd been writing ten years or so, but that's not the same. And I learned so much-- but my friends and family all still think I lay around doing nothing, because I never produced anything I could really show them.
Ungh. I hate everything, at the moment. Even the wonderful renovations we're doing, that on a particular level I'm so happy with. They'll look so great, and we'll have such a wonderful home when it's done. But it's time I can't spend writing.
I can't really even enjoy the hour I get here and there. I want more. I want to just sink into it for three or four hours at a time. I want it so badly.
I can't have it, and that's that-- almost no one in the world gets that. Even professional writers often don't get that. But it would be so great.
It's not even that I have a specific story that wants to come out. I have many. I just want to immerse myself in one of them and do it.
Ungh. I didn't sit down to write about that, I sat down to write about how great the painting is going. Hopefully tonight we'll get the back wall entirely done, and can start its trim. Once the trim has a couple of coats, we can assemble the bed. Then we can have the mattress delivered. I want to schedule the delivery by the end of the month. We don't have to take it by then, I just want it scheduled. I would prefer to get as much done before then as possible, because I think it'll be impossible to work on the opposite wall with the bed in place. But still.
We're so macho. We're getting so much done.
Guh.
I suppose dinner, good as it was, didn't agree. Maybe I'll feel better in a minute.
I've just peeled off a panel and a half of wallpaper using nothing but boiling water, a sponge, and a putty knife. I am huge and manly.
At the moment Z is edging the one painted wall, in preparation for my putting on the third coat of paint.
I was totally useless almost all day at work. I really, really, really want to not leave the house much, and sink deep into a writing phase. I haven't done that in a while. In '03 or '04 I spent like six weeks writing 100 hours a week and while I didn't produce anything salable, and was generally miserable in my life, I still look back on that sometimes and think, Christ, what bliss that was. If only I'd known how to write properly, and hadn't squandered it. I haven't had the nerve to be unemployed again, because that was such a bust in terms of producing anything salable. But I had never finished a novel, at that point. I hadn't even really finished a story. I'd been writing ten years or so, but that's not the same. And I learned so much-- but my friends and family all still think I lay around doing nothing, because I never produced anything I could really show them.
Ungh. I hate everything, at the moment. Even the wonderful renovations we're doing, that on a particular level I'm so happy with. They'll look so great, and we'll have such a wonderful home when it's done. But it's time I can't spend writing.
I can't really even enjoy the hour I get here and there. I want more. I want to just sink into it for three or four hours at a time. I want it so badly.
I can't have it, and that's that-- almost no one in the world gets that. Even professional writers often don't get that. But it would be so great.
It's not even that I have a specific story that wants to come out. I have many. I just want to immerse myself in one of them and do it.
Ungh. I didn't sit down to write about that, I sat down to write about how great the painting is going. Hopefully tonight we'll get the back wall entirely done, and can start its trim. Once the trim has a couple of coats, we can assemble the bed. Then we can have the mattress delivered. I want to schedule the delivery by the end of the month. We don't have to take it by then, I just want it scheduled. I would prefer to get as much done before then as possible, because I think it'll be impossible to work on the opposite wall with the bed in place. But still.
We're so macho. We're getting so much done.
Guh.
