Gods, it’s cold. My…

Gods, it's cold. My fingers are cold, typing. I keep pausing to wrap my hand around my mug of tea (Ceylon Breakfast, hot.) I'm considering turning on the space heater, but that seems wimpy, since it's still only October in California. On the other hand, I'm a wimp. Yes, on due reflection, the space heater goes on. One moment...

I overslept a bit today, I think because it's so grungy outside. I used to be able to rely on my internal clock, but I think I may have to invest in an alarm clock. I have a lot of work I want to get done (I've set deadlines for myself: Get Richard 1/3 of my book by 12/1; finish bulk of thesis over Christmas; get Richard the manuscript for the anthology by 2/1/98; etc.) and I need to get up early to do it.

I'm discovering that you definitely get more flack for being an editor than for being a writer. People are much more inclined to grouch at you. This may be in some part due to my .signature (the file that automatically gets appended to all my e-mails), which recently was this one:

"I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters." - Solomon Short

I think too many people were taking that as personally directed. I have changed it, so as not to confuse them.

Anyway, back to work. Have a lovely day, my dears. Oh, and for those of you reading Johnny's Story and confused by the voice, Johnny isn't black. Cassie is black, but Johnny isn't. Clear as mud? Good.

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