I am staring uselessly at the book. I know this isn't useless entirely, because for the last two days I've been doing it only to have bursts of productivity after hours of staring. Stupid book. I keep thinking if I'm not going to be writing it, I should do something else productive. Then I don't.
Things that aren't productive:
--checking the mail
--recycling most of the mail
--finding (in a catalog from the mail, which needs recycling but hasn't gotten there yet) a lovely sweater I am not buying for pameladean for $180, even though it would look lovely on her, all eyes-and-hair-and-cuddly (I have exquisite taste on other people's behalf, but somehow it strikes me as even less useful than finding a sweater I wasn't buying myself for $180)
--swearing at the mail for not being anything that could make me productive
--calling multiple people who are not home or otherwise not answering the phone to make plans with me to eat a meal or ice cream or drink warm beverages or fix something around my house (separate categories of phone call for the first couple than for the last one)
--going downstairs to take something out for dinner, then deciding to make something else for dinner that doesn't require anything taken out
--regarding The White Death: The Epic of the Soviet-Finnish Winter War, then not picking it up to read
--making livejournal lists of unproductive things
Okay. I'm going to go poke the phone book to see if it will spit forth further information about people who will fix something around my house or, more to the point, yard, and then I'm going to do my yoga on the off chance that my mood is related to my back instead of to my stupid book. I'm really quite cheerful in person right now, I think due to the fact that none of you or the other people I interact with are my stupid book, and that goes a long way right now.