harumph.

[mrissa]

It is Sunday.

Sunday is not the day for writing.*

Sunday is the only day not for writing.

Sunday is not the day to have entire new book outlines fall on my head.

Sunday is not the day totally immerse in the "starter file" looking for that one little note that goes with the thing that fell on my head and makes it gel with sort of a slurping noise, and to find it, and to have the slurping noise occur, and to have to write more little notes.

Sunday is particularly not such a day when I've been trying to limit computer time otherwise because my back is still a mess.

Also not in a week when I am trying to get a million things done and get ready for California and I don't even remember what clothes I used to wear in Northern California in late February/early March.

Also I don't want a dark older-end YA fantasy to write, thanks.

Brain! Come on now, brain!

Ah well. Someone will be happy, anyway, because there are cliffs.

The hindbrain does not seem pleased with writing, "And then they all fell off the cliff and died, the end," and closing the file. But closed the file will be, because today is Sunday and therefore not the day of writing.

Just the other day I was telling dd_b that productivity sort of sneaks up on me sideways sometimes when I'm aiming for lack thereof, but I'm not at all sure this is productive.

*Here in Mrissaland, rather than as a moral absolute. You lot can do as you like.