Reading Not Writing

Okay, that's not entirely true, I spent a little time yesterday writing impressions of After Dachau by Daniel Quinn, the book I read the day before. But that doesn't count since it didn't make much sense and it didn't get finished. The book was good and unexpected. I read And Now You Can Go by Vendela Vida today. It was also good, but not nearly so unexpected.

I was interested in it, though, structure-wise, because it was written in first person. Most of my still-unfinished nano is in first person, and I'm thinking that I'm using way too many words. Not that I've sat down and read over what I have, it's just the impression I get.

Family stuff is just getting stranger and making more depressed. I think it's what caused the headache that felt like a steel rod pressing into my forehead above my left eye. I had it most of the day. I didn't take anything, maybe I thought it was penance for something. For not wanting to thing about all of the family weirdness?

Now I have ex-husband weirdness on top of it, I agreed to a favor I'm not sure I want to have agreed to at this point. Three years of blessed silence, then he calls my parents and me because he wants something. I never want to call him because I want something. I wish he felt the same way.

Boy noise on the verge of bed. He works a double tomorrow, so I'll share space with small ones for five hours while he's gone. I'm hoping I no longer have the headache.

Tomorrow will be the day to work on assignment #7, I'd like to get it in before #8 is posted, just for kicks.

It was warm and melting today, but all I wanted to do is hibernate. Eight-thirty on a Friday night and all I want to do is curl up in bed. Minor depression has dragged itself into my head and chest. A visit with a friend on Sunday will, hopefully, help banish it for a bit.