I meant to write all weekend. My mind was goo, and I did not. Instead, I rode around in feklar's car, bought groceries, read a romance novel, watched a bike race with terrible commentary, tasted maybe five different wines, and managed not to have seat cushions hurled onto my head from an upper balcony, by dint of staying inside out of the sun and listening to someone's phone ring with The Avengers theme about sixteen times. And I got to tell someone, too late, that Grave of the Fireflies is not a fun movie.
Job interview in the morning, for which I'm probably not qualified, but I at least want to find out about it, and if it would be better for me than my current.
Wonder if I'll manage any wordcount tonight? Perhaps I should be more positive: I will have some wordcount tonight, regardless.
Even if it's like Saturday morning's, just jumping ahead in the outline to write bits of description and chapter openings.
I miss my writing vacation already. There's a possible retreat I could attend, but I need to be finished by the time that rolls around. Oh, well.