A few years ago I was posting insane word count during a NaNo, and someone joked that I had one or more of the cats churning out slush for me.
I’m sure everyone will be grateful to know that Nixie is not, in fact, contributing to this latest book.
(I have a new desk! I’ll be replacing this one sometime this week! Hurrah!)
Ever since I can remember, the first Sunday in August has been the Highland Games.
I’ve remembered it too late to schedule it in over recent years, or we’ve been busy, but this year we made it. We packed up both godfamiles, and off we all went for an afternoon out in the gorgeous sun. There wasn’t a spot of humidity anywhere, and there was a decent breeze, thank goodness.
HRH wore his kilt — of course — and Liam wore the tiny kilt that my grandfather got for me from Edinburgh when I was a wee little thing. They stopped a lot of traffic.
Liam loved the massed bands; he loved the drums and the pipes (not a surprise at all, considering his heritage and the cousins who play both); he loved all the dogs he saw; he smiled at and charmed just about everyone he met. He reached for a total stranger to cuddle with her, but it was fine, because it turned out that she was the wife of one of the members of Salty Dog, a local Celtic band that HRH used to hang out with lo these many years ago. And she was more than happy to cuddle him a bit before heading off to the beer tent where the band was striking up. He absolutely was not interested in napping, or eating that much; too much to see! to do! to hear! The one thing he wasn’t happy about was the cannon that was part of the opening ceremonies. He’d been fine through the display of musketfire, but when they fired the cannon he was looking the other way. The sudden sharp sound surprised him more than anything else, so there was a bit of angry crying. But after he’d cuddled with each of us and had a bit more milk, he was fine and interested in the bands marching onto the field.
I came home with badly sunburned shoulders, despite the amount of sunscreen I slathered on before departure. But apart from that, it was a wonderful wonderful day, one of the best I’ve had in a while. The massed bands at the opening ceremonies were, as always, worth the $10 admission fee alone. And it felt really special to bring my son to his first games, as I’d been brought to too many to count while growing up.
Ah, subtext.
In essence, Brigid is a goddess of transformation, and smiting is perhaps the clearest example of this.
What, me, annoyed at something? Why do you ask? (Or perhaps that ought to be “still annoyed at something”, or “more of a similar something”.)
Smite is such a lovely word. Of Germanic origin, you know, giving us our Anglo-Saxon word “smith”, meaning “to hit”. Lots. Against something hard. Perhaps I will begin using this word more frequently. As in, “Move or I will smite you.” Or, “Stop telling me you know me better than I do, relative stranger, or there will be smiting.” Or perhaps, “Say one more thing about how I work — or worse, should work — and you will find yourself smitten.”
Almost a full two months after the fact, there are finally pictures from Liam’s birthday weekend up:
Liam’s First Birthday Weekend Extravaganza!
You may notice the page looks a little different from the earlier photo albums. Someday I’ll get around to recoding the old ones to match the new design and the new site. You know, in all that spare time I have.
Total words, ESTC: 6,356
Total words today: 1,513
Well, that’s about all there is to say about that. Mousme‘s presence kept me writing when all I really wanted to do was lean my head back against the chair, close my eyes, and fall asleep.
I’ve lost my USB jump drive, which is annoying but not a crisis. I carried it in my purse as the ultimate backup of all my novels and NF books, complete or in progress. I have no idea where it’s gone. I’ll need to buy another one soon because even emailing myself copies of in-progress work makes me nervous about the possibility of servers melting down and so forth.
We had a fun afternoon with my parents yesterday. Again, it was a bit hard to get into the rhythm of the day; one wants to relax yet one’s brain is also saying, “But they’re leaving in a couple of hours, we should be doing things!”
Liam’s always doing things, though, as illustrated by these photos taken by my father:
I’m not saying much these days because the things I want to say aren’t very helpful to anyone. I’m tired of being the responible person in almost every situation I’m involved with. I just don’t have the energy any more. I’m tired of drama; I’m tired of crises; I’m tired of people taking things the wrong way. I’m tired of people insinuating that they’re annoyed at me doing responsible things, but not stepping up to the plate to do it themselves instead. I’m tired of other people taking and not giving back.
So if you come to me and ask for help or input or anything along those lines and I tell you no, it’s not personal. It’s self-preservation. (And frankly, it’s to protect you too, because I don’t want to lose it somewhere along the line and take you out.)
This is not in response to any one thing that has happened, so everyone thinking “Oh no, this is my fault” can just stop now. This is just me drawing the line out loud.
More writing today. I’m taking Liam over to his grandma’s when he wakes up from his nap, then Mousme‘s coming over to jam. I, of course, will be working. Because that’s all I seem to do, whether I’m in my office or not.