Unlike Ichabod Crane, who is too manly to ever require the care of a physician, I tired of having the flu, so I went to my general practitioner. My very nice MD told me I was dealing with a virus, not a bacteria, and the only real cure was time. She also said I should get a flu shot as soon as I felt better -- even though the shot wouldn't have helped with this flu AT ALL -- because I live in Arizona, the epicenter of flu bugs this year. So, as lousy as I felt at the time, I had a solid shot at getting the flu again because (a) well, that's life and (b) I'm not Ichabod Crane.
Unlike lesser writers, I didn't immediately go home and start watching DVR-taped episodes of Sleepy Hollow. You might think, this is because this season's episodes of Sleepy Hollow aren't engaging my interest, despite the presence of Tom Mison, and you'd be correct. But it's also because I am such a dedicated writer, a person who loves her craft, a woman who won't let a simple illness keep her from doing what must be done.
(Yes, I'm aware that illness HAS been keeping me from what must be done, but that was then. This is now. Really, you can't continue to live in the past like this.)
Returning home from the doctor's office, I kicked up the computer and worked on my 30-day book project. Checking the calendar this morning, I saw that I'm almost exactly at the 30-day mark since starting the project, but I'm far from done. My novel isn't ready for editing, much less publication, but that's okay because (a) well, that's life and (b) I'm not Ichabod Crane. That is my new life excuse, no matter what happens. If I fail to complete a project on time, if I burn supper, if I crash my car because I wanted to try blindfold-driving (not a thing; don't do it), I'm going to say, "Whatta ya want from me? I'm not Ichabod Crane!" and, during the initial period of confusion that will follow, I'll escape.
It's enough that I'm working on chapter fifteen, I'm almost well enough to smooch with my sweetie, and I've never before came close to finishing a novel in 60 days. If I have my first draft wrapped by the middle of next month, I'll count that as a triumph, believe me. Fingers crossed. I wonder if I'll make it.
Speaking of smooching on sweeties, last Tuesday was Valentine's Day. While we often celebrate the occasion with a meal out, I decided not to infect my friends and neighbors at a local restaurant. We had a quiet supper at home, then Glynn told me he'd bought me "a little something", but it hadn't arrived in time for our low-key celebration.
"I thought we weren't exchanging gifts," I said, which was true, but it's a rule we both break on occasion. Then he said it wasn't a gift-gift, it was nothing I'd ever asked for, he wondered if I'd like it. This is not how someone normally starts a conversation about yet-unseen presents. His comments sparked a little curiosity, while also inspiring a little fear, because my life partner often makes unusual choices.
My spider sense tingling, I asked, "Is it a decoration?"
This was part of my fear. Glynn is not especially skilled when it comes to interior decoration. I once returned home to find an enormous wooden sword mounted in our living room, a room that was gently decorated in a much more contemporary fashion. He'd found it at Goodwill, he had the five dollars they were asking, and now it was ours. You might think, An enormous wooden sword, that'll make a statement, and you'd be right. It states, "Welcome, Enormous Wooden Pirates! You'll feel right at home here!" Everyone else, not so much.
He told me, "It's not a decoration." He added the gift had nothing to do with dolls or babies or baby dolls, all things I love, and I should quit asking because it was very unlikely I'd guess what he'd bought. It arrived yesterday, my little present, and Glynn believed it was a 19th century opium bottle. When researching the Third Brother, he discovered that opium was enormously popular back in the day, readily available, cheaper than beer, given to babies if they were a bit restless, and tremendously addictive. Lizzie Borden had enjoyed a touch of the stuff on the day she went to show her ax to Dad and Stepmom. A relaxed acceptance of the drug continued until 1905, when new laws brought the party to a screeching halt.
He bought the 2" bottle because he liked its tiny wooden spoon (just right for 19th century opium use, he thought) and he hoped I'd think it was cool. Since most opium bottles were brown or clear glass, he contacted a seller who offered a collectible with a little color. After he made his purchase, he did more research on tiny bottles and wooden spoons, and decided he'd bought a Chinese snuff bottle (turns out, the wooden spoon is just right for 19th century snuff use). Since there's a huge number of Chinese snuff bottle collectors -- any number over "four" would have been a surprise to me -- and most Chinese snuff bottles go for a huge multiple of what he paid, he worries he may have picked up a counterfeit.
Me, I think receiving a possibly-counterfeit-Chinese-snuff-bottle-presumed-to-be-an-authentic-19th-century-opium-bottle for Valentine's Day is so much more fun than getting flowers. I can't wait to show it to the Good Witch.
Unlike lesser writers, I didn't immediately go home and start watching DVR-taped episodes of Sleepy Hollow. You might think, this is because this season's episodes of Sleepy Hollow aren't engaging my interest, despite the presence of Tom Mison, and you'd be correct. But it's also because I am such a dedicated writer, a person who loves her craft, a woman who won't let a simple illness keep her from doing what must be done.
(Yes, I'm aware that illness HAS been keeping me from what must be done, but that was then. This is now. Really, you can't continue to live in the past like this.)
Returning home from the doctor's office, I kicked up the computer and worked on my 30-day book project. Checking the calendar this morning, I saw that I'm almost exactly at the 30-day mark since starting the project, but I'm far from done. My novel isn't ready for editing, much less publication, but that's okay because (a) well, that's life and (b) I'm not Ichabod Crane. That is my new life excuse, no matter what happens. If I fail to complete a project on time, if I burn supper, if I crash my car because I wanted to try blindfold-driving (not a thing; don't do it), I'm going to say, "Whatta ya want from me? I'm not Ichabod Crane!" and, during the initial period of confusion that will follow, I'll escape.
It's enough that I'm working on chapter fifteen, I'm almost well enough to smooch with my sweetie, and I've never before came close to finishing a novel in 60 days. If I have my first draft wrapped by the middle of next month, I'll count that as a triumph, believe me. Fingers crossed. I wonder if I'll make it.
Speaking of smooching on sweeties, last Tuesday was Valentine's Day. While we often celebrate the occasion with a meal out, I decided not to infect my friends and neighbors at a local restaurant. We had a quiet supper at home, then Glynn told me he'd bought me "a little something", but it hadn't arrived in time for our low-key celebration.
"I thought we weren't exchanging gifts," I said, which was true, but it's a rule we both break on occasion. Then he said it wasn't a gift-gift, it was nothing I'd ever asked for, he wondered if I'd like it. This is not how someone normally starts a conversation about yet-unseen presents. His comments sparked a little curiosity, while also inspiring a little fear, because my life partner often makes unusual choices.
My spider sense tingling, I asked, "Is it a decoration?"
This was part of my fear. Glynn is not especially skilled when it comes to interior decoration. I once returned home to find an enormous wooden sword mounted in our living room, a room that was gently decorated in a much more contemporary fashion. He'd found it at Goodwill, he had the five dollars they were asking, and now it was ours. You might think, An enormous wooden sword, that'll make a statement, and you'd be right. It states, "Welcome, Enormous Wooden Pirates! You'll feel right at home here!" Everyone else, not so much.
He told me, "It's not a decoration." He added the gift had nothing to do with dolls or babies or baby dolls, all things I love, and I should quit asking because it was very unlikely I'd guess what he'd bought. It arrived yesterday, my little present, and Glynn believed it was a 19th century opium bottle. When researching the Third Brother, he discovered that opium was enormously popular back in the day, readily available, cheaper than beer, given to babies if they were a bit restless, and tremendously addictive. Lizzie Borden had enjoyed a touch of the stuff on the day she went to show her ax to Dad and Stepmom. A relaxed acceptance of the drug continued until 1905, when new laws brought the party to a screeching halt.
He bought the 2" bottle because he liked its tiny wooden spoon (just right for 19th century opium use, he thought) and he hoped I'd think it was cool. Since most opium bottles were brown or clear glass, he contacted a seller who offered a collectible with a little color. After he made his purchase, he did more research on tiny bottles and wooden spoons, and decided he'd bought a Chinese snuff bottle (turns out, the wooden spoon is just right for 19th century snuff use). Since there's a huge number of Chinese snuff bottle collectors -- any number over "four" would have been a surprise to me -- and most Chinese snuff bottles go for a huge multiple of what he paid, he worries he may have picked up a counterfeit.
Me, I think receiving a possibly-counterfeit-Chinese-snuff-bottle-presumed-to-be-an-authentic-19th-century-opium-bottle for Valentine's Day is so much more fun than getting flowers. I can't wait to show it to the Good Witch.
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