I’m up so late writing that I forget what day it is, and then I stand up my running buddy the next morn.
When faced with an extra hour, I write–used to be, I’d run. I did run the Bud Run last Saturday. I ran with J on her first 10K and she did well; we finished in under 1:10. But mostly I am not running. I am writing. The marathon in Albany will just have to be an undertrained adventure.
My left wrist aches. I have arthritis in my toes, and this is the same deep hollow ache–and it hurts even when I’m not moving it. I attribute it to 2+ hours a day at the laptop keyboard. B thinks I should be working at a better keyboard (ie a fullsize) and that might help.
I have completely revised the chapter breakdown. And to me, this is huge progress. As aerobil sez (but I’m too lazy to find/link to the actual post), writing is mostly organizing. I’m working slowly on an exploded outline as ideas emerge (low-tech: newsprint and Crayola markers), and I’m nearly ready to send off the methodology chapter. (But afraid to.)
I’ve found that when I sit at the machine for 4+ hours at a time, I get a little shaky. And cross-eyed. And when you ask me a question I can’t always answer right away because instead I’m TYPING WORDS in my head that I must read in order to respond to you. Sorry.
My house is a HUGE mess. My family is out of socks. I’m lucky H is big enough to do the dishes. B gets disgusted every once in a while and cleans the floors. But other than that: I’ve got my entire life spread out on the dining room table (and under it as well, in crates) and I’ve decided that it will JUST STAY there.
I don’t cook. B cooks. That means we have steak and Rice-a-Roni most nights. He is a good daddy and puts raw carrots on our plates, too. He will be up for sainthood after this year; I guarantee.