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Well, since I can sit up for more than 20 minutes now without wishing for one of those pretty white pills with the groove down the center, and since I’ve now read 9 brand-new, never-read-’em-before books and eaten a box of crackers and gods only know how much toast, and since I’ve watched at least 10 episodes of The West Wing, finished one fabulous beta project, started another, discovered I can eat cheese and chocolate but only in small amounts, and since I’ve quite probably racked up at least a thousand IOU points to my husband, who has been a very patient nurse, I figure it’s time to get back on this horse, get the reins in a firm, stern grip, and then cling tightly to the saddle in panic while it races off in whatever direction I didn’t tell it to go in.

139 words in that sentence, and I don’t even have the excuse of a painkiller this morning.

Do these things linger in your system? I tried Vicodin last night instead of Percocet, believing that to the weaker of the two, and quickly discovered that hydrocodone leaves me prone to walking into things and marvelling loudly at the amazing light pattern the blinds make on the opposite wall. Maybe I should have tried for Kubla Khan.

Anyway. This is the home stretch. I have macheted my way through typing hell, and am wading in for a second round with this poor, bleeding MS. These will be all the notes I made on continuity, the layering of themes and subplots into the story, bonus character development, insertion of romance into earlier points of the plot, etc. etc..

Augh.

On the plus side, I’m getting so caught up in the ending of my own story I keep forgetting to slather it with ink.

On the minus side, I’m getting so caught up in the ending of my own story I keep forgetting to slather it with ink.

Bleck, snerg, and other annoyed and vaguely German-sounding words.

Her Dogginess, again, does not approve. She thought this bit was finished, and she could go back to leaning on my forearm while I was trying to type, which is what she’s doing now. She heaves big, heartfelt sighs every time I take over the futon, pillows, blanket, notebook, pens and stacks of paper in hand, and climbs down in a plodding manner meant to show me what a terrible person I am, and what a huge burden of inconvenience I have laid upon her.

To be fair to her, the futon is where I tell her to go whenever she leans too heavily on my arm, turning opus into spou, so this must all seem like some cruel joke to her.

dog-again

See what I’m up against? She can make this face at me all day.

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