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I want to start all my posts "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow." There's no sound reason for this. It will nag me till I start at least three this way. I'm determined to ignore my inner nag.

What I need to think about is "Today and today and today." I have a box of Conflux things that will be delivered at today's meeting. A whole box, out of my flat! The other big lot of deliveries (the one that will clear a lot of the library floorspace) won't happen till Conflux proper.

I have time to write! At least, at this moment I do. It all depends on that meeting, I guess. But it looks as if I'm off the hook for anything pertaining unto Life through Cellophane prior to it returning from the printer. The text is final and proofread and the cover has changed (and I only sort of know what it's been changed to, but Andrew does lovely covers, so I know it will be good). And so one more book has (probably) been put to bed. Thank you, Eneit Press!

I need to write about glass and silver and Empire. I also need to make snarky jokes. The last thing (or the first) I ought to do is make a list, because I keep forgetting crucial life subplots. I know I'm juggling lots of balls in the air and that lists will mean I drop fewer of them, but what I want is Rosh Hashanah, not lists.

My crystal ball has just told me that honeycake is in my near future and that I really ought to blog the recipe. Tomorrow. Or tomorrrow. Or tomorrow.

(no subject)

Just now things are a bit surreal. I want to say that I blame Geoff Ryman, but things I say have been much misinterpreted recently (probably due to the way I said them - I need to be more careful about how I say things), so I won't. Ryman is definitely an influence, however.

In the middle of one of the bios that are the backbone of 253, one of my old universities rang and wanted to know about me. I found myself giving just a 253 bio's worth. So much of me didn't make it into that phonecall. I suspect that the interviewer was relieved*.

I've been reading three books this weekend (trying to catch up with myself and get the books away before the September onslaught begins) and I didn't shape my description along the lines either Chaz Brenchley or Sherwood Smith offered. Three fine writers, but only one shaped my discourse. It's odd.

I enjoyed all the books a great deal, but the patterns of epic fantasy just didn't leap into my mind when I was on the phone. To which I have to say - to both Chaz and Sherwood - I'm sorry. I would have loved to have seen myself appear as either an Inda or a Julianne on the university's form. Instead I'm a Gillian, 253 words about a person in transit.




*I'm not dealing well today. I miss Les a great deal. Next Father's Day will be less fraught - these things do improve over time.