Thanksgiving is only two weeks away. My den still isn’t painted. My garage is still full of stuff other than my car. Everything in the house has a layer of dust on it ranging from “fine” to “Okay, this is just dirt now, isn’t it?”
I’ve already decided that we’re just going to have to call a housekeeping service and get someone who is not me in here to clean, but the house has to be picked up and in some kind of order for that to happen.
I didn’t walk the dog this morning. I probably could have, but a weird twinge in my knee woke me up. I need to stop being a baby about it, but there’s a fine line between being a baby and just being sensibly cautious. I don’t know where that line is, so I just go full baby.
I really want to get back to the Sue Allen thing.
I did get all of the Block As done last night. On to Blocks B through E. An afghan is a good thing when you have a lot of nervous energy and can’t get around like you would like and you can’t be alone like you need to be to write.
Speaking of writing, I want to fret over a short story collection. Not submit it yet or anything. I just want to start putting together a list of possible stories and then fretting over them. I kind of want to buy notecards and put the names of stories on those note cards and then stick them in my purse so that I can pull them out and soothe myself thinking about how the thing might be shaped.
I guess I should publish some more short stories, then.
And I have a project of Beth’s I need to give some time to. But I didn’t have time in October and I haven’t been in the right frame of mind this month to spend with other people’s dead folks. I’m hoping this weekend.
Ha, you know, you guys, I think I fret in order to self-soothe. I think going over all the things stressing me out, over and over, actually makes me feel better.
I wonder if it would be obnoxious to make The Butcher a list and then go over and over it again out-loud whenever he was around.