(no subject)
Not well-organised today: got up with timings intended to let me go to farmers' market on the way to library, which opens at twelve on Sundays (and shuts at five, requiring a speedy turn-around). Instead of this, have a period of the strength that my tracking app refers to as "a medical problem" (losing about 80ml an hour) and decide to write at home. Which worked out, in the end, except while I hit my word count I couldn't hit my plot points count because one "minor" plot point in the original outline now turns out to be a major one and not as simple as the original one sentence remark, UGH WHY.
(Every year I complain that I want to write wanky self-indulgence literary fiction but every year the lure of getting actual feedback is too great and I do my best to write plotty stuff instead).
Thinking in the shower revolved around the nature of courage and self-knowledge before devolving into a lament about a) I don't discuss these things any more because most of the time I feel like I've said it all already, b) everyone I know these days is more into certainties: questions of morality or ethics like "but what is x" so on aren't appreciated, it's more ... practical? Theoretical conversation is after all the luxury of the oppressor, so discussing the precise nature of How Do We Know What A Moral Is doesn't factor. We all know the right answers and now we have to convince the heathens, with fire rather than arguments.
Bit depressing, all told, but then I'm feeling fairly depressed. Not in the sense of sadness but in the physical and literal sense of being trodden on or pushed down.
Sleepy as all hell. Linds has been in Malmo for about three days and isn't due back yet, leaving us moderately like a three-legged stool with one leg removed, if one assumes that instead of falling over the stool just has more arguments. Amongst itself.
Also the thing about trying to bake things is that it's dependent on people in the flat not doing the laundry at that point, because our flat is so small that you have to open the washing machine door out of the way in order to open the oven door, which you cannot do if the washing machine is doing a load.
I bet Mary fucking Berry never has this problem.
(Every year I complain that I want to write wanky self-indulgence literary fiction but every year the lure of getting actual feedback is too great and I do my best to write plotty stuff instead).
Thinking in the shower revolved around the nature of courage and self-knowledge before devolving into a lament about a) I don't discuss these things any more because most of the time I feel like I've said it all already, b) everyone I know these days is more into certainties: questions of morality or ethics like "but what is x" so on aren't appreciated, it's more ... practical? Theoretical conversation is after all the luxury of the oppressor, so discussing the precise nature of How Do We Know What A Moral Is doesn't factor. We all know the right answers and now we have to convince the heathens, with fire rather than arguments.
Bit depressing, all told, but then I'm feeling fairly depressed. Not in the sense of sadness but in the physical and literal sense of being trodden on or pushed down.
Sleepy as all hell. Linds has been in Malmo for about three days and isn't due back yet, leaving us moderately like a three-legged stool with one leg removed, if one assumes that instead of falling over the stool just has more arguments. Amongst itself.
Also the thing about trying to bake things is that it's dependent on people in the flat not doing the laundry at that point, because our flat is so small that you have to open the washing machine door out of the way in order to open the oven door, which you cannot do if the washing machine is doing a load.
I bet Mary fucking Berry never has this problem.