I had hoped to work on The Book and post something witty/intelligent/existent here today, but like any writer worth her salt, I have spent a productive and exhausting day accomplishing everything but.
Although lichen–or possibly split peas–clings to a pot still sitting in the sink, my pen has been otherwise productive, accomplishing most of the day’s chores and errands including tweaking this blog’s layout, dropping off books at the library, picking up prescriptions at a drug store whose name I habitually screw up, and surviving an epic grocery excursion to get the cupboards to quit their damn bellyaching already.
I have a little more than an hour left to accomplish before the Husband arrives home, at which point I must consider the necessity of processing many of said groceries into bagged lunches, frozen futures, and–most immediately–dinner.
Tonight writing feels a lot like raw chicken.
