![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Nov. 7th, 2012 03:56 pmThe US election has a surprising Australian slant this year. So many people threatened to move to Australia if Romney lost. No wonder we talk about drop bears and giant spiders and poisonous bitey-creatures. I suppose it's too late to remind people that we have a female atheist leader, that we have compulsory voting and near-universal health care? I liked a particular response to this cry of conservative despair: the commentator suggested that anyone fleeing the US and seeking Australia come by boat.
I'm less political than I thought I'd be today, actually, because I got so very wet on the way to teaching this morning. Today's rain is gentle and cool and gets below layers of waterproof clothing and right into the skin. I am hydrated and bedraggled.
We spent most of the morning talking about story-telling skills and working out ways to exploit fascinating personal histories in fiction without actually hurting oneself. It's a balancing act sometimes between good writing and taking care of oneself.
No other news. There is none.
I nearly finished on a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. I should begin more paragraphs as appalling (and entirely unintended) pastiches of poems. Instead, however, I have a manuscript to read for someone and 160 pages of academic density to read for myself. Then I get dinner. Then I get an online booklaunch and a meeting and then I get to do whatever I like with the vast emptiness of my evening. Let me clarify: I can do whatever I like as long it's on my list of tasks that need to be finished.
I'm less political than I thought I'd be today, actually, because I got so very wet on the way to teaching this morning. Today's rain is gentle and cool and gets below layers of waterproof clothing and right into the skin. I am hydrated and bedraggled.
We spent most of the morning talking about story-telling skills and working out ways to exploit fascinating personal histories in fiction without actually hurting oneself. It's a balancing act sometimes between good writing and taking care of oneself.
No other news. There is none.
I nearly finished on a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. I should begin more paragraphs as appalling (and entirely unintended) pastiches of poems. Instead, however, I have a manuscript to read for someone and 160 pages of academic density to read for myself. Then I get dinner. Then I get an online booklaunch and a meeting and then I get to do whatever I like with the vast emptiness of my evening. Let me clarify: I can do whatever I like as long it's on my list of tasks that need to be finished.