Conflicted on what to do about my book. Books. I've come to see this one I'm supposed to be working on now and it's perenially rejected predecessor as all one work, and so I hem and haw over whether or not to address more immediate concerns with the first one rather than plug away on the second, knowing it's pointless if the first one isn't circulating. So I've done lots of work on both, into the wee hours of the night/morning, to the point where my hands hurt and my eyes are sore.
Somewhere I smell cookies. I believe I'm being seduced.
Polly is contemplating quitting smoking. I think everyone should, but just a word of warning for those who worry about getting fat: I'm what happens when you quit smoking and drinking, but continue to write. You leave the smokes, but alas, get the cookies.
Looking for a job. Looking for any lingering trace of spring.