I am very glad to be in that part of novel revisions where I can type in changes on the order of fixing tyops and infelicitous word choices and actually get stuff done while the Sick Gnomes dance on my brain. But I can also leave the larger revision bits for until after the Sick Gnomes have finished their cotillion.
I'm not sure why I find the word "cotillion" so silly. It's like the ether that way. Every joke is funnier if it includes the ether. I learned that in my physics major. Just plain old ether won't do; that's for chemist jokes, I suppose.
I got e-mail offering me, "Crazy for presents!" I like books for presents better. Giving crazy for presents around here is like giving zucchini in high summer: everyone's already got more of their own than they know what to do with, and the ones who don't were deliberately trying to avoid it, or they would have planted it themselves.
Although it's not like zucchini in that I don't get mad if someone mixes crazy into a chocolate cake without telling me. Zucchini is not a default ingredient to chocolate cake, people! I think there needs to be a biohazard symbol specifically for zucchini, so them as wants it can eat it and the rest of us will not take a piece of cake to be polite only to find that it has been zucchinified without our knowledge.
That's why rhubarb is better than zucchini: nobody tries to sneak rhubarb into things and not tell you. They don't say, "Here's some chocolate cake -- ha ha, with rhubarb! Fooled you!" No. They say, "Here is some strawberry rhubarb pie." Or, "Here are some orange rhubarb pecan muffins." Or, "Would you like some rhubarb meringue?" Rhubarb is like Sacramento: it just can't sneak up on you.
Right. I think I am banned from similes for the rest of this illness.