mrissa | (no subject)

markgritter is packing for tomorrow's trip. He's done remarkably well not stressing out so far this month. Or rather, he's done remarkably well keeping the stressing out within reasonable boundaries, because naturally he's a bit stressed. It only makes sense. November will be a relief. Everybody be nice to him, dammit.

Coffee with

dlandon was better than expected: we managed to find an independent coffeehouse with a comfy couch! I was nearly resigned to digging up a Sbux for her discount. The music was a bit loud for the type of conversation we were having -- we've gotten to that stage in female friendship where we discuss things one doesn't really want to shout at the rest of the coffeehouse patrons if the music hits a quiet bit unexpectedly -- but good coffee, comfy couch, reasonable-looking chairs and tables for more writerly expeditions. The down side is that it closes at 6:00 p.m. I hardly think one can call oneself a coffeehouse at that point. It's over on Lone Oak by the Thai place, where we should maybe have lunch with people who work over on Lone Oak. She hinted subtly.

(She is the queen of subtle. You should all know that by now. Even when she refers to herself in the third person. Perhaps especially then.)

I spent the day like the proverbial donkey between the bales of hay, but I finally finished

cristalia's novel and The Lost Steersman. Both of which I enjoyed immensely, and I have more to say about one than about the other, but that's for L., not for general consumption. Good stuff, though. Several spots where I wrote "YES" in the margin. Of L's book, not of

porphyrin's copy of Kirstein's book. Glad I have the next one in the series on hand.

I'm almost caught up on typing my story notes. The short stories are catching my attention -- I think there's some really good stuff in the queue -- and the revisions, and Zodiac House, so I will successfully fend off The Mark of the Sea Serpent for awhile longer. I think its danger moment has passed. (And watch, I'll spend all weekend whimpering and scribbling notes about the Aesir, to be typed in a later fit of typing.) Sparkly stories. Shiny. Tangible. I may need to make spritz to write "Singing Them Back," but I needed to make spritz anyway, because

porphyrin has neverever had them, and can we let that stand? We cannot. I cannot. You, as usual, may do as you like.

Oh, and I have an eye appointment for Monday afternoon. Whee.

Edited to add: I meant to say that my notes on Norse mythology amuse me nearly endlessly. The idea of an Aesir children's book called Heimdall Has Nine Mommies makes me giggle. I am a lame mythogeek. But I always entertain at least one person, and so it could be worse.