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Saturday:
Day Off. Slept in. I mean, I didn't get out of bed until 10am. It was silly-nice, and I probably could have lazed about all day except there were Things To Do. Two craft fairs, wherein I fell in love with but with common sense and moral guidance (thanks, BF) did not buy a $650 hand-smithed ring of silver, orange garnet and diamond (not my usual thing at all but lovely), but did buy maple syrup, maple sugar, a wooden carved spoon, a (replacement) down quilt, pillar candles, and cornbread. And since it decided not to rain, walked many miles along the UWS, taking photos.
Also, I saw a dragon.
(more NYC2012 photos here)
Sunday
CLANG THUD BANG CLANG Cats, wide-eyed & fluff-tailed: WhatTheHell?! Me: "It's just the Beast waking up for winter, relax."
Yep, the PowerCenter, aka the Beast, aka the furnace for my building, was waking up, a bit at a time, stretching through the pipes and radiators. A little early by my standards, but we have old folk living here, too... I note that ElderCat is getting plushy again. The Catalmanac suggests a hard winter.
The rest of the day: editing, cooking, cleaning, footballl. In other words: an Autumn Sunday. Finestkind. Giants won. Sesame-maple ribs for dinner. Not enough work done, but enough that I feel ok about the day. Suffice until Monday the evils therein.
And, via the Twitterverse and a discussion of "aspiring author" as a non-useful phrase... I call myself a writer. I write. "Author" is a label other people put on me after the fact. However, some folk seem to think that "writer" isn't enough, that "author" is the longed-for and preferred title.
Discuss?
(I'd love to hear from published and unpublished writers, and also readers-who-don't-write)
Day Off. Slept in. I mean, I didn't get out of bed until 10am. It was silly-nice, and I probably could have lazed about all day except there were Things To Do. Two craft fairs, wherein I fell in love with but with common sense and moral guidance (thanks, BF) did not buy a $650 hand-smithed ring of silver, orange garnet and diamond (not my usual thing at all but lovely), but did buy maple syrup, maple sugar, a wooden carved spoon, a (replacement) down quilt, pillar candles, and cornbread. And since it decided not to rain, walked many miles along the UWS, taking photos.
Also, I saw a dragon.
(more NYC2012 photos here)
Sunday
CLANG THUD BANG CLANG Cats, wide-eyed & fluff-tailed: WhatTheHell?! Me: "It's just the Beast waking up for winter, relax."
Yep, the PowerCenter, aka the Beast, aka the furnace for my building, was waking up, a bit at a time, stretching through the pipes and radiators. A little early by my standards, but we have old folk living here, too... I note that ElderCat is getting plushy again. The Catalmanac suggests a hard winter.
The rest of the day: editing, cooking, cleaning, footballl. In other words: an Autumn Sunday. Finestkind. Giants won. Sesame-maple ribs for dinner. Not enough work done, but enough that I feel ok about the day. Suffice until Monday the evils therein.
And, via the Twitterverse and a discussion of "aspiring author" as a non-useful phrase... I call myself a writer. I write. "Author" is a label other people put on me after the fact. However, some folk seem to think that "writer" isn't enough, that "author" is the longed-for and preferred title.
Discuss?
(I'd love to hear from published and unpublished writers, and also readers-who-don't-write)
