T - 1 day till Revision

Sheesh, it's hot around here.

Usually a Chicago March does not find me sitting in a t-shirt and slowly sweating away the afternoon, but apparently this year is the exception. Today the dog and I went on a walk, and even for her it was too hot to pee on everything within leg-lifting range like she normally does. Instead, she trotted along until we got to the duck pond a few blocks down, where she promptly submerged herself, enraging the nearby geese and nearly dragging me in with her. Thankfully she lost her momentum when the water got up over her legs, so I was able to balance myself on the edge of the water while she slogged around as deep as the leash would let her go.

I wish geese weren't so evil. They're really rather pretty birds, big and soft looking, but the fact that they would just as soon carve a hole in my head with their beaks is not a particularly endearing quality. They spent most of our visit squawking from the other end of the pond with some much quieter and very pretty mallards sporting beautiful emerald green heads. By the time Sadie deigned to get out, the geese had rounded up their rage-courage and started to advance.

Stupid geese. Also, stupid 80 degree weather. Ernest Hemingway texted me yesterday and said that last year, the temperature was around 32. Blaaaaarg.

Virginia Woolf and I are tearing through the twenties in our reading lately, and we're eagerly waiting for St. Matthew (or is that St. John?) to join us, but she's being obstinate and reading Game of Thrones instead. Of course, I bought that for her, so I really shouldn't complain. Her entire blog is about complaining, though, so maybe if she posts a post about books (THISISASUBTLEHINT) I will protest over there. But I've never read much fiction from the legends like Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and reading Stein's Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and a book called A Dangerous Friendship - Hemingway and Fitzgerald both have rather ridiculously spurred me on to read more from that generalized era of people. Woolf and I re-read Gatsby and discussed it at length, and that with Broccoli's book has made me love Fitzgerald just a bit. I'm still suspicious of Hemingway, though, but we're going to do Moveable Feast as it's more reminiscing than bullfights or war.

Of course, then Woolf decided she wants to get through the real Woolf, so I'm in the middle of re-reading Room of One's Own. I've fallen back in love. This is ridiculous - I feel all polyamorous.

Ms. Ashke has recently announced that she is plugging along with her own writing, so if she's reading this, she'd better STOP READING THIS AND GET BACK TO WRITING. GOD.

Wrote a short story today about dinosaurs. It's stupid. Maybe I'll send it to St. Luke (or is it St. Mark?). She had a good meeting, so I should probably make her day a little stupider.

Tomorrow begins the revisions. Blaaaarg. BLAAAAARG. Etc.