![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
One of the best things about the summer is that I don't run all over northeastern Ohio from 7:00 AM until 7:00 PM every weekday. Shuttling between school and work and more school, grading papers, prepping for class, and trying to salvage sliver or two of down time saps most of my energy. I'm always sitting down to write when I'm both physically and mentally exhausted.
Now, during the summer, I still have my job and a truly heinous commute, but I have more time to relax, read, play video/computer games. This presents problems. Probably the most significant one is that I fuck around more in the summer. On games. On the Internet. On sleep. Things I miss out on during the semester. Another problem is that I spent lots more time at my day job, which isn't usually intellectually stimulating. That saps my energy in a whole different way.
Had to take Willi back to the vet again today. This time it was for his yearly checkup/shots. This year he needed his annual shot, rabies, and blood test for heatworm. The vet suggested keeping on the heartworm supplments year-round, not just because it eliminates the need for the annual blood test, but also because, with the winter weather less predictable and warmer, mosquito carriers still linger about even in January.
But despite the cold, rainy day here in Cleveland (The radio station said that we could have record lows in the 30's tonight.), despite the trek to the vet, despite playing PS2 and surfing about, I still wrote about 1,500 words of my new story. Hovering around the 5,000 word mark. Go me!
I'll leave you with the first paragraph of the story:
I know the molten gold is ready for pouring by smell. When it first begins turning liquid, its scent is sharp, like the little vials clerics wave under the noses of ladies who faint at tourney. When it is ripe for working, the scent mellows to the lemony cream of those little cakes served between acts at the opera. My mother sensed her metals by sight alone, and for the longest time, I watched glowing pools of melted silver trying to see when they were ready for my hand. But the gift comes to each in its own way, if it comes at all, and mine is not a visual talent.
The first conflict occurs after the next paragraph, which is rather short. I hope that the voice and wanting to know more about the narrator and her gift will carry readers through the more static opening.
Now, during the summer, I still have my job and a truly heinous commute, but I have more time to relax, read, play video/computer games. This presents problems. Probably the most significant one is that I fuck around more in the summer. On games. On the Internet. On sleep. Things I miss out on during the semester. Another problem is that I spent lots more time at my day job, which isn't usually intellectually stimulating. That saps my energy in a whole different way.
Had to take Willi back to the vet again today. This time it was for his yearly checkup/shots. This year he needed his annual shot, rabies, and blood test for heatworm. The vet suggested keeping on the heartworm supplments year-round, not just because it eliminates the need for the annual blood test, but also because, with the winter weather less predictable and warmer, mosquito carriers still linger about even in January.
But despite the cold, rainy day here in Cleveland (The radio station said that we could have record lows in the 30's tonight.), despite the trek to the vet, despite playing PS2 and surfing about, I still wrote about 1,500 words of my new story. Hovering around the 5,000 word mark. Go me!
I'll leave you with the first paragraph of the story:
I know the molten gold is ready for pouring by smell. When it first begins turning liquid, its scent is sharp, like the little vials clerics wave under the noses of ladies who faint at tourney. When it is ripe for working, the scent mellows to the lemony cream of those little cakes served between acts at the opera. My mother sensed her metals by sight alone, and for the longest time, I watched glowing pools of melted silver trying to see when they were ready for my hand. But the gift comes to each in its own way, if it comes at all, and mine is not a visual talent.
The first conflict occurs after the next paragraph, which is rather short. I hope that the voice and wanting to know more about the narrator and her gift will carry readers through the more static opening.
