I look at other writers' web logs, and I'm shamed by the fact they religiously post their writing production for each day. I look back at my blog, and see that I've posted on just about every topic except my writing production. Huh. Okay, well, that changes right now.
I didn't write yesterday. No, that's not true. I wrote the first half of a review of Walter Wangerin's The Book of the Dun Cow for Green Man Review. I'll finish it up tonight. But as far as fiction or interviews go, nada. Zip. For shame.
But I've got an excuse. I was working on my office. The new house (hey, it's less than a year old, so that counts as new in my book) has a small "den" that I use as my office. But it has a high, broad entry sans doors which makes it hard to get into that writerly cocoon mode when kids and cats and everything else drifts in at regular intervals. So I've been carpentering and remodeling. Last night I hung a pair of double doors and installed the door handles. Naturally, no commercial doors fit the actual space, so much sawing and sanding and chiseling and cursing were invoked to make them fit. Not to mention staining and puttying. But the end result is quite attractive.
The remodeling isn't finished yet--floor to ceiling bookcases are next on the agenda--but now I have privacy, and can write to my heart's content in peace and quite. Or play Joust and Centipede. Whichever.
Now Playing: Violent Femmes New Times
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