My husband’s cold finally got me. I admit, I thought I had beaten it since I hadn’t gotten sick, but as of 3:00 AM last night, I too have fallen. Cue me working from home today.
Missed word count on Saturday (this isn’t uncommon), so I pulled double on Sunday, and I’m still in the same scene (a bookstore, if anyone cares). But I feel good about the scene, so hurray. Maybe I’ll finish it later today. Maybe I’ll even finish the chapter!
Collecting information from my friend Kristy on Sanderson’s creative writing class in January. I’m excited, despite the driving. If I don’t find a carpool buddy, however, I can’t guarantee making every class. But I shall try. Gas prices have gone down like, a nickel, so that’s good.
Also got proofs back from Leading Edge Magazine for the villanelle I sent in. The art for it looks awesome. WAY better than my dinky poem, ha.
In reading news, The Lion of Senet by Jennifer Fallon is pretty good so far. I’m about half way done. (Then I have to alpha read for Nathan.) The only thing that bugs me about this book is that Ms. Fallon constantly uses unclear pronoun antecedents and it drives me insane. I’m surprised her editor didn’t catch and fix them, because I hit one every three pages or so and I have to stop reading so I can sort out my confusion. For a while I thought “Ella” was a man due to said unclear antecedents.
Excerpt of the day:
He gave her a long, hard glare, then motioned for her to follow him as he hobbled to the back of the store, leaning on a cane as he went. “I can tell you books written by Brights if you’d rather have that. Over here are some histories with Brights in them. That green volume—see, there?—was written by Regal Calaki himself, eighty years ago. Be careful if you look through it. You wreck it, you bought it, and good luck finding another copy.”
“Eighty years?” Teague repeated. “You have books that old?”
The clerk snorted. “In the book world, 80 years is nothing. Downstairs I have novels that have survived centuries. I don’t keep them up here for you young pelliwagons to drop and spit on.”
Weirs, chapter 5