Yesterday I spent the better part of three hours studying voodoun and synopsizing a short story.
At least I think it’s a short story. I’m beginning to think that any story that has a mortal love triangle, a deity love triangle, and the protagonist’s concerns as well should be a longer story. Not a novel, though. I’ve enough of those in process or unstarted.
…it would make a nice novel….
So. Three hours working on synopsis. Exhausting. Can’t explain it; after all was said and done, I had about a page and a half of typing, but my brain was very similar to one of the softer cheeses.
Good. I don’t understand why that should be so much harder than actually writing something, but if it is, it is. I hope to have some amount of a rough draft by the end of this weekend.
Today we packed. And packed. Things that have not been touched in four years — that have not been seen for four years, except by our ubiquitous spiders — were uncovered and sorted, cleaned or disposed of, categorized and packed.
I’m tired. I don’t feel that I’ve done anything, but I’m tired.
There are trout in the oven, a pilaf of seven grains, porcini mushrooms, and sun dried tomatoes on the stove, and a redhead at the spinning wheel creating Miraculous String. A good day, even if it was spent packing.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry