October 2004

I have so many boxes. The cats have an exciting box playground. I feel like I’m making no progress at all, but I’m gradually clearing a path.
Of course, what I’m making no progress on is writing. Sigh! I have plans, but there is almost no butt in seat time. I’m so tired from work and unpacking that there isn’t a lot of energy left over.
I think this is something a lot of (most? all?) writers deal with: you have to fit writing into a life that includes a day job, trying to maintain a relationship/family, etc. Something has to give, and I think women have the worst of it. But that’s a rant for another day.

Two of my cats.

Is it wrong to be slightly envious of my fiction for being better travelled than me?
I’ve never been sad about a story going to New Jersey instead of me, but I’m about to send a story to England. I’ve been to England, but it was in the late 1970s and I was a preteen. My main memories are that it was August and it was so overcast that it looked like pretty much the same amount of light the entire three days I was there, and I also have a copy of The Magician’s Nephew that I purchased from a newstand despite being utterly clueless about English money.
I’d kind of like to stuff myself into an envelope and mail myself to England right now.