It suddenly struck home to Keith and I that we are moving in about two months.
Cue: the panic.
Especially because we've decided to do the move ourselves. It's a lot more work, of course, but the military will pay us what they would have paid the movers and well, that right there is a whole lot of motivation.
But that means that we really must have a house to move our stuff into. And boxes. Lots of boxes. And we'll either have to make two trips, or fly someone up or down, depending, in order to help us drive. We actually own more vehicles than there are people in our family, so we'll need an extra driver.
Keith will drive the HD, pulling the car trailer with the Toyoda (or Yoda, as he is known), with the ATV in the bed of Yoda and more stuff in the bed of the HD.
Can you imagine what that will look like going down the road? Neither can I.
I will drive my car with the girls and mystery person will drive the UHaul.
The problem is that Keith's heading into Red Week, straight from the training mission. So, he's not sure if he'll be given a four day leave to search out houses. I searched for hours on line, and as usual, I found one or two that made me want to rent them right now, before someone else gets them.
Urgh.
In other news, today started out cloudy and then became sunny.
I know, right? What's gotten into Kentucky?
Spring, that's what. The bird song in the mornings are delicious and I am currently not wearing a turtleneck.
Also, I have ceased weighing myself (or at least, paying too much attention) because I'm so physically active I don't really care any more. I run.
Ok, not really. I walk to warm up, and then I jog along slow and steady-like and I do that for a long time, fifteen minutes or so and then I walk and then I jog again and then at the last, I sprint all the way home, which is exhilarating.
I actually went outside in spandex the other day and was not afraid. It was the first day that I had only one interval of walking, instead of four. Which means that my endurance is really growing. I'm thinking of expanding my route.
I have been neglecting my housework lately and today must catch up. I spend all my time working on the second drafts of two faerie tales. I almost gave up on one yesterday, I was stuck, stuck, stuck.
I thought, this is a horrible story, it's going nowhere, it's beyond redemption, I don't even know why I'm wasting my time on this. Then I went for a run and watched some afternoon television.
Then I thought, why don't I just put on some trance music and just free write, just write whatever crap comes into my head. So I did that and first came one idea and then the next and then came the right idea and I was off and running again. Then, hours later, I was thinking, I really like this story, this is pretty cool.
There's a moral in there somewhere. One is that trance is very good for creative writing. Try it sometime.
Vague writing goals are floating up inside me and lie there, like distant mountains, far, far away in the hazy distance. I have three faerie tales that are completely of my own making and then I have two or three that I want to rewrite because, as Ann of Green Gables has said, they have so much scope for the imagination. Then I'm going to try and submit for publication.
Which is really, really a long shot. No one publishes collections of short stories, let alone faerie tales. You have to be an established author first, like fantasy goddess Robin McKinley, before a publisher lets you play around like that.
So, I should be working on my novel. But I don't have a novel. I have faerie tales, so that's what I'm going to go with. There's already a crap ton, and I mean a crap ton, of the "swords and sorcerer" type novels out there with an intact magic system and technically solid plot and garish cover art.
I don't want to be another. If I never get published, that's ok, though I'm no longer in denial that I want it. But if I do get published, it will be with something that was inherent to myself, not something I manipulate into being because that's what the market supports. (I sound like one of those snotty artists that live, starving, in garrets and make god awful paintings. Oh well.)
Anyway, I should go; the laundry is calling.
