Drowning Nor Waving

June 7, 2013 Progress Notes:

On Roadstead Farm

Words today: 1100. 2600.
Words total: 88,100 89,600.
Reason for stopping: I should get to bed while it's still actually dark.

Darling du Jour: Nat stepped forward, took her mother's hands. "Mum," she said softly. "I understand that if I let my brother die, you will skin me with a soup spoon. And then you'll have to spend the rest of your life in black, and it's your worst colour, and it will be all my fault."

Mean Things: Everybody actually knew your awful family secrets all along.  War!

Research Roundup: What bad burns look like on dark skin, which is shockingly hard to find; burn treatment for said burns; long-distance hiking gear lists.
Books in progress: matociquala, Range of Ghosts.

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We will not discuss how late I slept after crawling into bed at 6:30am.

Back into Chapter 21 to rip up the floor and mush two scenelets together into one actual scene, because structurally, they were duplicating each other's work.  And then forward, to Chapter 25 of all places, because that's the bit that's interesting to me right now, and I may as well go with it.

There was a small break in between here to go get some Indian for dinner, and for a walk in Christie Pits wherein we discussed crowdfunding campaigns for the second Death Star.

This was not how many words I wanted to stay up 'til 4:30am for.  But c'est la vie.

August 13, 2012 Progress Notes:

On Roadstead Farm

Words today: 800.
Words total: 30,225.
Reason for stopping: The people here have kindly let me sit and type since about 12:30pm. That is a long time to take up someone's cafe table. Also, I want to go home and make orange zucchini loaf.

Motivational Threat of the Day: From the most eminent P: "If you don't write 500 words today, the Bond villain chef from Sweet Genius will--" --which he then left ominously hanging as I trembled with fear.

Darling du Jour: The stars are falling, I thought, and opened my eyes.
Mean Things: Funeral dynamics such that you don't even get to give your condolences. Missing one's best friend very badly. Finding not awesome personal friendship outside your window, but spiderbirds. Disappearing corpses; never a good sign, really. Another of those figurative things becoming literal which sucks for the person it's describing. Entropy trying to entropize your house.

Research Roundup: Suburbs of Windsor; agricultural products of Essex county; sparrow reference photos; asphodels.
Books in progress: Sean Stewart, Resurrection Man

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Not enough verbiage yesterday to merit a post: maybe 100 of the words I'm logging now. Instead, there was a good solid sleep-in, French toast for breakfast, general afternoon downtime, and one (1) set of jazz at the Rex. My brain is feeling nicely fueled up.

I'm adding a new metric, the Motivational Threat of the Day, because the last few days sora_blue has, shall we say, encouraged my writing through the application of possible consequences. Like, for example, "If you don't write 500 words, somewhere a puppy will not get to play with its ball."

This, um. Works. Also it's kind of funny as hell.

Now that P's gotten in on the act* (thaaaanks, guys), this probably merits a metric. Horrible earth-shaking threats will be reported as they arrive.

And now, I have been here all day, so I'm going home to bake.

*To be fair, I told him that if he didn't animate the amount of game characters that need animation today, a Rahonavis would come kidnap the basil plant he's growing on his balcony and put it in dinosaur salad. So.