"Now there's revolution, but they don't know what they're fighting." (133)
November 24th was actually the first day of Jethro Tull Season.
A foul, rainy day today. Our high was 60˚F.
I am shelving MP2 and everything related at least until early January, when, hopefully, I will be semi-caught up on at least some of my delinquent writing. I have been at this study for fifteen months, and I have been working on actually writing the manuscript since June. And I have lost perspective and patience, and Katheryn and I are beginning to feel the financial consequences of this whole undertaking.
My mood couldn't get much blacker.
I desperately need something to live for. I'm telling myself it's the escape back to Rhode Island. But it's my fault we're here, and the getting back is proving almost impossible (even with the money). So, maybe I tell myself it's the escape, but the truth is that the search continues.
Hardly two weeks until Xmas.
I want to write, at length, about the extreme damage done me by the COVID-19 pandemic, even though I did not get sick, and Kathryn did not get sick, and no one in my immediately (admittedly tiny) family got seriously sick. In March 2020, K and I were in a pretty good place. I was getting healthy again. I was writing a LOT. Things were going well at McWane; just prep and field work, really, no research, which had always been the plan. I was going outside a lot. I went outside almost every day, not once or twice a month. My teeth were in halfway decent shape, and I was almost twenty pounds heavier than the wasted thing I am now. I saw other people regularly. The Howard Hughes thing was still a joke. And I have lost all that and more, and this loss is directly related to the effects of COVID-19. Almost nothing has ever had such a devastating effect on my life.
I woke at 5 a.m. this morning, which is better than waking just before 4.
Today's Lovecraft was The Shadow Out of Time which, if nothing else, is a study in why you cannot write a story that is 90% first-person exposition. What, today, is called an "infodump." The story is one vast "infodump." No, it's not a favorite.
Really...I'm just kinda as broken as I have ever been in my life.
Please have a look at the Big Cartel shop. We are very much relying on it for a significant portion of our income right now.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast (Disillusioned)
4:35 p.m. (Thursday)
A foul, rainy day today. Our high was 60˚F.
I am shelving MP2 and everything related at least until early January, when, hopefully, I will be semi-caught up on at least some of my delinquent writing. I have been at this study for fifteen months, and I have been working on actually writing the manuscript since June. And I have lost perspective and patience, and Katheryn and I are beginning to feel the financial consequences of this whole undertaking.
My mood couldn't get much blacker.
I desperately need something to live for. I'm telling myself it's the escape back to Rhode Island. But it's my fault we're here, and the getting back is proving almost impossible (even with the money). So, maybe I tell myself it's the escape, but the truth is that the search continues.
Hardly two weeks until Xmas.
I want to write, at length, about the extreme damage done me by the COVID-19 pandemic, even though I did not get sick, and Kathryn did not get sick, and no one in my immediately (admittedly tiny) family got seriously sick. In March 2020, K and I were in a pretty good place. I was getting healthy again. I was writing a LOT. Things were going well at McWane; just prep and field work, really, no research, which had always been the plan. I was going outside a lot. I went outside almost every day, not once or twice a month. My teeth were in halfway decent shape, and I was almost twenty pounds heavier than the wasted thing I am now. I saw other people regularly. The Howard Hughes thing was still a joke. And I have lost all that and more, and this loss is directly related to the effects of COVID-19. Almost nothing has ever had such a devastating effect on my life.
I woke at 5 a.m. this morning, which is better than waking just before 4.
Today's Lovecraft was The Shadow Out of Time which, if nothing else, is a study in why you cannot write a story that is 90% first-person exposition. What, today, is called an "infodump." The story is one vast "infodump." No, it's not a favorite.
Really...I'm just kinda as broken as I have ever been in my life.
Please have a look at the Big Cartel shop. We are very much relying on it for a significant portion of our income right now.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast (Disillusioned)
4:35 p.m. (Thursday)