May dragons eat my toes. . .

That's my new motivating self-curse; It's for when I'm sitting staring at the computer screen, tempted to rearrange a paragraph one more time out of fear of writing a new scene instead. My new mantra shall be: I will write the next scene, or may dragons eat my toes. It worked last night. I wrote a perfectly awful 6 pages before the awfulness finally ate into my brain and I slumped over unconscious with the horror of it. But no dragons ate my toes, so that's good. I believe the dread of that happening will wear off shortly -- I mean, I do have some sense of reality, thank you. I do actually know that there aren't any dragons in the world. Oh wait, what's this? Eek!


Don't let him near my toes, please. (And to think that in my last post I referred to Komodo dragons as one of the world's greatest hits!)

I made oatmeal for dinner the last two nights in a row, so you can see I'm really straining myself. I'm wearing two pairs of socks, and a sweatshirt with a big cowl that I can pull up over my face if I get cold, and I'm sitting Indian-style. I have a bad habit of treating my knees like I'm still a teenager, and then when I get up I hobble. I have to unfurl myself often from the writing desk (or writing sofa as the case may be) to help Shiloh get up -- sometimes she can manage on her own, but she needs a lot of tush-boosting now as she's gotten very rickety very fast. She sleeps with her tongue poking out; it's cute but sad. My poor old dog baby.

There are big stacks of books on the coffee table that we brought home from ALA. How fun was it to walk around picking up free books? Pretty dang fun, I tell you, but also heavy. Librarians are strong! It's tempting to just sit and read, but I remind myself what would most certainly happen if I were to do that. That's right: dragons would definitely eat my toes. With soy sauce, and chopsticks.