A Week in One

The weather, unseasonably warm last week, has shifted into cold.  The drops of water on my car this morning turned out to be ice.

There is a mouse in the house.  A mouse that does not like peanut butter.  From time to time it startles us, a sleek gray ghost with pale crinkled ears and pale scurrying feet.

I wake each morning with sneezes. 

In the afternoon and evenings I type.  I am revising the notes of a year and a half.  I am daunted by the crystaline purity of the prose that came out of last year's writing workshop.  I am amused by the overuse of adverbs in my blog posts.  Bringing the latter up to the level of the former is going to be tricky.

I have abandoned a mitten.  I am working on a sock in a strange garish colorway - smooth blues and greens alongside grays, creams, burgundies - and a lump of electric green and bright yellow.

The tables, chairs and floor are piled high with books.

There are power plays underway at work.  *sigh*

Comments

[timna]

we do not see or hear our mice. but they do like peanut butter. we've caught one every night we set the traps. yuck.

happy new year.

[Rana]

I very much wish the mouse liked peanut butter. It's avoiding the traps very skillfully.

The mouse has been less visible of late. I can't tell whether to be relieved or concerned.

[Scrivener]

Hey, the fact that you've achieved "crystaline purity" in prose in the past is promising. I don't think I've ever even aproached "crystaline purity," no matter how intesively I've worked on a draft. I'm happy when I can get to almost translucent.

[Rana]

Well, it helped being in a workshop with several like-minded souls, all being egged on by an editor who's slogged through acres of slush. ;)