I think the hardest parts of this book are behind me. I have lots of notes for fitting more awesome into it in revision. But right now that sounds like fun. And it sounds like something I know how to do. It feels like I can take my printout and my notecards and my colored pens and make this happen really quite reasonably. (As long as I don't try to tell myself one of my least useful writing lies, which is "I can print this out as soon as I've fixed one or two more things." I often try to delay printing out. I shouldn't. I can recycle the paper, but being miserable and unproductive for weeks and then printing it out at roughly the same stage anyway is not more useful.)
Maybe I'm not really calm. Maybe I'm just tired. That's all right. I'm tired and finishing anyway. It's not a long book, but it's taken a long time to write. I've been working on bits and pieces of this book through most of the vertigo, through all of the grief for my grandpa, through everything else the last few years. And you know what? I think we will get there. I think this draft that's coming up is a milestone, not the be-all and end-all, but I think it's a milestone towards the book I actually meant to write.
So that's a thing, maybe.
Would have preferred that the Stanley Cup final did not feature the Flyers, but never mind, we can't always get what we want. And perhaps now I can stop referring to poor Mr. Halak as Gurney, now that the Habs are out of the playoffs. I also would have preferred that Carter not go get Darby O'Gill and the Little People to watch as a potentially useful reference, because now I have to see what he finds out from it, so I have to watch it. But you know. Great artists must suffer in order to put cheap early-period Sean Connery jokes in their work. Or something like that. I'm almost sure it's something like that.