the fiery pit of typing hell

….which is not to say I’m completely done murdering squids. I did a very weak pass at the last five chapters and then dove straight into a frenzy of note-taking and list-making, trying to pin every loose end and plot hole to the cork board by its pretty, dead, formaldehyde-soaked little wings.

I seem to have switched species in the middle of that metaphor. Sorry. Not allowed painkillers pre-surgery, and boy is that ever making me punchy tonight. Nothing like having your gallbladder edge your liver out of the way to make you appreciate the convenience of acetaminophen. If I suddenly go off on a diatribe about coral reefs and man boobs, please forgive me.

Anyway. This is my first real departure from Holly’s advice, and I’m not yet sure it was the right thing to do, but I got so mired in stuff I can only really fix with the MS spread out sacrifice-like on my computer screen; it’s just too hard for me to connect the dots on hard copy sometimes. So I made enough notes to put any overeager freshman to shame and now here I am, where the keyboard keys all stick and the screen resolution is always just that little bit off. I gave up on contacts and glasses a while back and have just pulled the monitor as close to me as I can get it, so the cord is completely extended and I look a little like my grandmother trying to drive her town car.  

Typing hell.

Amazing. I have lived with myself for -what? - just over 29 years now, have lived with my strange desire to create imaginary friends and then splash them all over a piece of paper for -um – yes, about 27 years now, and yet the staggering illegibleness of my handwriting never fails to stun and dismay me.

Yes, I know illegibleness is not a word. I’m making it one. If “meh” can end up in the dictionary, well, I think I can do this much.