prolix, scissored, unreconstructed rubbish
After a day of completely loathsome sloth during which about ninety-five per cent of season two M*A*S*H was watched, I dragged myself out of the studio this morning to spend four hours at the State Library, reading the Farrell book --- twenty per cent of which was directly useful and the rest merely interesting --- making ever so quaintly Luddite notes with blue pen on white paper while surrounded by young chaps on ever smaller laptops and one old geezer trudging through the Oxford American --- isn't that like an oxymoron of some sort? *snort* --- Dictionary.
Note to self: next time, eat breakfast before you go in so you don't have to smuggle half a sandwich and half a lemon tart in which you don't even eat and gets you feeling bad when gently rebuked upon exit by the security guard with lovely blue eyes. And that way, you can break for lunch at the lovely white cafe and go back for the second reinvigorated session. Structure, woman!
Got worried about how to write this stage of the novel in terms of maintaining interest without giving too much detail or skimming over, and location and duration. But then I remembered on the bus that the original idea of this novel was to travel Sydney and that right there could solve location as well as interest and maybe everything else. Maybe.
Urgh. Put it to the back of my mind, let it simmer or mature or ferment or whatever other organic evolutionary process fits. Some of us need to get ready for the working week to come which will involve a shower, tabouli, burning CDs and weeping for Henry while welcoming Beej and Sherm.
Who did I dream about last night? Someone I know of the male persuasion, older and kinda hot but quite off limits for some reason or the other. I just can't bring his face into focus. It's been bugging me all day. Don't you hate it when that happens?
Note to self: next time, eat breakfast before you go in so you don't have to smuggle half a sandwich and half a lemon tart in which you don't even eat and gets you feeling bad when gently rebuked upon exit by the security guard with lovely blue eyes. And that way, you can break for lunch at the lovely white cafe and go back for the second reinvigorated session. Structure, woman!
Got worried about how to write this stage of the novel in terms of maintaining interest without giving too much detail or skimming over, and location and duration. But then I remembered on the bus that the original idea of this novel was to travel Sydney and that right there could solve location as well as interest and maybe everything else. Maybe.
Urgh. Put it to the back of my mind, let it simmer or mature or ferment or whatever other organic evolutionary process fits. Some of us need to get ready for the working week to come which will involve a shower, tabouli, burning CDs and weeping for Henry while welcoming Beej and Sherm.
Who did I dream about last night? Someone I know of the male persuasion, older and kinda hot but quite off limits for some reason or the other. I just can't bring his face into focus. It's been bugging me all day. Don't you hate it when that happens?