I just feel cruddy.
I warded off a migraine last night, and I hope it stays away.
The book is going beautifully. The wrong book, but never mind that now: there is a book, and it's going beautifully, and I am in love with the book and with its characters, who are much nicer than the characters in the right book. Except when they aren't. But mostly they are. Sometimes.
The characters in this book have no sense that they have any effect on world politics, which is sometimes a good thing, especially in comparison with the other book. Which people want to read -- not, like, thousands of people, but y'know, a dozen. So I really should work on it. Yep. Should.
I suspect that I have successfully blocked out the knots in my back but not their effect on my mood. We'll find out when I go in to get a massage this afternoon. I do that a lot: "There's nothing wrong, I don't know why I feel so weird. [poke poke] Oh, that. Well okay then."
I should set a time limit for working on this wrong book which is going beautifully, and after that I should work on the right book. Really.
Every time I come up with a plan like that, timprov points out that it's awfully structured, and I agree that it is, so I just try harder to work on the right book, and it seems to work out that way. So let's hope.