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I've written 50,226 words. Not all of those were on the story "New Guy In Town" (which really needs a better title, I think) and I hate the last 500 words I wrote on that project, but then I cranked out a few thousand more on my Pseudo Victorian Boys. Which also has goats. I'm being thematic. Or I'm just obsessed with goats. ;)
So, who wants to read "New Guy" and give me feedback, and maybe a new title? *listens to crickets* Actually, one of my coworkers has already expressed an interest in reading "New Guy," I'm not sure why, but he's not computer enabled and will need me to print it out. Print. Can you imagine? For heaven sakes. If I just cut off that last 500 or so words which I don't like that's somewhere between... 75 to 81 pages, depending which part of OpenOffice I'm to believe, the scrollbar or the stats popup. Yeouch. Should I? Or should I email it to him at work? *snicker*
Okay, I should really get off my ass and do some dishes and laundry, maybe even take a bath. I had to go to a dentist appointment at 7:30 this morning, then run paperwork down to the mortgage broker, so this last 3,000 words was kind of hurried and I feel like life needs to be attended to, now. But the dental appointment was good - it was just a cleaning, but my dentist did it himself, because he doesn't yet have a hygienist on Fridays, so as he put it "You have to listen to me chirping in your ear the whole time!" He's funny. :) And as if not having had enough sleep for days and being there far too early, and just the fact that I always tend to get sleepy while getting my teeth cleaned (I know, I'm weird) his voice is quite soothing, I think, and he'll ramble on about whatever enters his mind - some joke swedish fish that his friend in dental school had from his dad who had been a Green Beret but then opened a magic shop, and how the woman for whom they laid out these candies with real fish oil in them, thinking she would spit them out in disgust, must have been Norwegian because she ate them, and how his son is obsessed with ticks because his teacher has Lyme disease, etc. I was a real space case by the time I was driving down to the mortgage broker's office. It might have been good for my writing, though, because as you can see I have absolutely no stops on my flow at the moment. It's like he infected the word centers of my brain.
It was also somehow amusing to me that the mortgage broker mentioned inspections and I said, "Did you hear that [Eor] had to meet the chimney inspector at the house at 7AM this morning?" and he immediately said, "Oh, that must be why [our buying agent] was up so early. He called me at 5:45." "Yes, poor guy. And he's not feeling well." "Yes, I know, he's had this cold for at least four days, already." All of a sudden I felt like I'm part of a community. The buying agent is on a first name basis with the mortgage guy and we can talk about his health. Is this something that happens when you get to be 47 years old?
Right. Off the computer now.
So, who wants to read "New Guy" and give me feedback, and maybe a new title? *listens to crickets* Actually, one of my coworkers has already expressed an interest in reading "New Guy," I'm not sure why, but he's not computer enabled and will need me to print it out. Print. Can you imagine? For heaven sakes. If I just cut off that last 500 or so words which I don't like that's somewhere between... 75 to 81 pages, depending which part of OpenOffice I'm to believe, the scrollbar or the stats popup. Yeouch. Should I? Or should I email it to him at work? *snicker*
Okay, I should really get off my ass and do some dishes and laundry, maybe even take a bath. I had to go to a dentist appointment at 7:30 this morning, then run paperwork down to the mortgage broker, so this last 3,000 words was kind of hurried and I feel like life needs to be attended to, now. But the dental appointment was good - it was just a cleaning, but my dentist did it himself, because he doesn't yet have a hygienist on Fridays, so as he put it "You have to listen to me chirping in your ear the whole time!" He's funny. :) And as if not having had enough sleep for days and being there far too early, and just the fact that I always tend to get sleepy while getting my teeth cleaned (I know, I'm weird) his voice is quite soothing, I think, and he'll ramble on about whatever enters his mind - some joke swedish fish that his friend in dental school had from his dad who had been a Green Beret but then opened a magic shop, and how the woman for whom they laid out these candies with real fish oil in them, thinking she would spit them out in disgust, must have been Norwegian because she ate them, and how his son is obsessed with ticks because his teacher has Lyme disease, etc. I was a real space case by the time I was driving down to the mortgage broker's office. It might have been good for my writing, though, because as you can see I have absolutely no stops on my flow at the moment. It's like he infected the word centers of my brain.
It was also somehow amusing to me that the mortgage broker mentioned inspections and I said, "Did you hear that [Eor] had to meet the chimney inspector at the house at 7AM this morning?" and he immediately said, "Oh, that must be why [our buying agent] was up so early. He called me at 5:45." "Yes, poor guy. And he's not feeling well." "Yes, I know, he's had this cold for at least four days, already." All of a sudden I felt like I'm part of a community. The buying agent is on a first name basis with the mortgage guy and we can talk about his health. Is this something that happens when you get to be 47 years old?
Right. Off the computer now.