Beloved taped the shelves yesterday, and today, as soon as i finish typing this blog entry, i'm going to put a coat of primer on them. a coat, or maybe two, of paint, and then the shelves will be finished. Beloved is even making tiling noises about finishing the backsplash, but if he can't get to it before next weekend, i won't be heartbroken. everything comes in its time.
i wrote nearly 3000 words yesterday - 1800 in the morning, and then another 1000 before bed. it felt good to find myself lost in the rhythm of writing again - i love the feeling of looking up and seeing that an hour has gone by without my notice. in a way, this is a different kind of writing - but in a way, it isn't. it's still words, it's still a story.
that the story is my story and that i am the main character feels a bit strange, but that part is the shortest section of the book. one of my pet peeves about self-help books of any variety are the ones which purport to offer the reader some life-changing strategy, and instead, turn out to be thinly-veiled autobiographies, long on the excrutiating details of the author's life, and short on the strategy for change.
i think before i prime those shelves i'll see what else might come.
in the words of shakespeare's henry, once more, dear friends, into the breach.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.