My brother-in-law sent this to me via my Facebook page the other day:
And, well, frankly:
The computer in question looks blank, but that’s either a fault of the lighting or the way cell cameras take photos of screens. In point of fact there are two Word documents open in that shot, both of which belong to Pine & Meyer. One is the entire novella under the working title “Splintered House” (specifically page 29, about 1,850 words into chapter 4 because I have made progress, all evidence to the contrary) and the other is “Splintered_chapter breakdown,” which is how I’m keeping track of my rewrite notes.
However, the prosecution would like to point out that, though I made some pretty significant headway on Sunday night, I actually had this morning off of work and yet somehow do not have more to show for it. The best-laid plans so often fail in the follow-through. I meant to use the unexpected leisure time for writing, but, naturally, spent it watching episodes of Voyager instead.
I don’t even like Voyager that much. However, I was able to confirm that, yes, I still have the last remaining shreds of a TV-crush on the pilot. Time well wasted, as it were.
The ensuing day has been a strange one, especially once I got off of work. Apparently I’m wearing my weed-dealing outfit today (as seen above), because a young man came up to me while I was eating a sandwich to ask for a joint. Or to offer me one. I’m not entirely certain; he mimed the action, then apologized at the slightly appalled, “Uh…no,” I answered him with.
Mind you, I was sitting in the back corner of a Subway at the time, hidden behind a large display rack for chips because I always pick the power position in the room (line-of-sight to the door and no way for anyone to sneak up behind you). So it probably wasn’t entirely the outfit’s fault.
Afterwards (very shortly afterwards — I decided I had spent just about enough time in that particular Subway for one evening), I went for a walk in Shoaff Park, a forested trail that runs along the St. Joe River. Though “trail” is a bit of a misnomer. It’s paved and, as I found out, a highly favored route between 6 and 7 p.m. Half a mile down the path I was deluged by about a hundred bicyclists — and I’m pretty certain I’m not exaggerating that number — who hailed me (and each other) with shouts of “Walker!” “Walker on the right!” and “On your left!” which felt more than a little excessive after about the thirtieth time. I couldn’t decide if I was an exhibition at the zoo, or hadn’t made it through the Zombie apocalypse. Rick Grime’s band of humans seems to be thriving.
As to my plans for the rest of the evening, they look a little something like this: