Well-loved

Last night porphyrin and Mike and Roo brought me a lasagna and garlic bread and ate it with me. Today dd_b brought me the last two O'Brian books to borrow (and an afternoon of low-key time with himself on the couch with the doglet). Mostly when people use the word "well-loved," they mean it as a euphemism for "battered," or else they mean that lots of people like them. But right now I'm feeling like the people who love me do a damn good job of it. I don't even know how I ended up with such great people to love. It's a good thing we don't all get what we deserve, or I wouldn't have even a quarter of what I do.

For even more local values of "people who love me" than those, I have promised timprov that I will drink some Gatorade to help stay hydrated and all that, as a way to address his concerns concretely, since they are reasonable and motivated by taking care of me. And Lord a'mercy, gracious sakes alive, jiminy pete, and any other old-fashioned oath you can come up with: that stuff is vile. As my great-aunt says about the cheap red wine of her time, it is not at all nice. I keep telling people I've had gator before, and it was a lot better than that, even accounting for it being powdered and reconstituted into a beverage. I think that Gatorade keeps you from getting dehydrated in the following way: you drink one small mug of Gatorade, and then you drink two large glasses of water to get the taste out of your mouth. Thankfully, I did not promise timprov that I would not complain while drinking this wretched stuff.

markgritter wiped off the trash can lid. This is not "news flash" material. This is in the category of "people loving me well": having a clean trash can lid makes me feel so much better. Really. It's one of those little things that matters way out of proportion. We all have those, and that's one of mine. Also, he is taking missista out to play, grinning sheepishly. And that's pretty cute.

What little things make you feel loved?

How it begins.

I forgot to say: I figured out how Sampo should begin, as opposed to the way it actually does begin. I can never write the beginning of a book right on the first go, so I just don't worry about it any more; it comes out a draft or two later. I should actually have figured this out sooner, since it's similar to the way The Mark of the Sea Serpent begins, only completely different. My new secret to beginnings is: skiing at night. All books from here out will begin with skiing at night. "Metaphorically?" says markgritter with some small hope. No. Sticks, boots, snow, stars. Skiing. Night.

It's good stuff. Snow noises, crisp smells. Who doesn't like night skiing? It's almost an REM song. "They cannot see me naked" -- well, no, because only idiots and the very desperate ski naked.

Hmmmmm.

All right, no. It was a thought, but -- despite the presence of idiots and the very desperate in my books -- not a very good one. But you have to give me the skiing.

Let's play a game. Who can spot the tired mrissa?

Maybe this is not a hard game.

I'm totally right about the skiing, though.