It’s been taking me until almost noon to get settled into writing each day, which is wreaking merry havoc with my deadlines, but George, thankfully, seems less than stressed about them right now. He gave me until the end of today, but also said he probably wouldn’t have time to read it soon regardless, so I’m taking that as tacit permission to take another day if I need it — and I think I’ll need it.
12,130 words now, nearing the halfway point, and I still have one more ball to throw in the air before my poor protagonist has to start juggling them all frantically. I think I want her to manage something small and difficult — an animal or a small child would be ideal, and would add nicely to the chaos I have planned. Onwards.
I suppose I should have been grateful that rather than being shocked or appalled, Reginald seemed inclined to laughter at the image of my being stripped of one article of clothing after another due to my admitted weaknesses in the literary arena. By the time I’d gotten to the Hamlet debacle (which had cost me my second sock), he was laughing out loud, guffawing, you might even say, which showed a certain want of fine feeling in him that I found quite distressing. Sometimes I thought I had been too hasty in agreeing to this marriage, even if it had been Rupa’s idea, and even if Rupa’s ideas were almost never wrong.
Almost is such a troubling word, don’t you think, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing. So often, one is inclined to put faith in it, to assume the best outcome possible, when it might be wiser to plan for the worst, so that when the wolf shows up, bloody feathers in its mouth, you know exactly who to blame for the missing chickens.
Still, a husband was undeniably convenient at times.