That time of year again.

I've been dreading this event: the first bout of my biannual allergy-induced insomnia. The trees are mating left and right, and the mould spore is skyrocketing. It's not as bad as most years, but I'm putting that down to my lovely, lovely chemo. (No, seriously. Apart from a few side effects, I don't know how I ever lived without it.) I'd take a Lunesta, but they tend to just make me hallucinate.

On the writing front, I'm about 50 pages into a new novel. It's only being written for fun, so I don't know if it'll ever see print. Time and Colleen will probably determine that, though. I'm really enjoying it--I actually remember, for the first time in months, why I started writing in the first place. (It's been a rough few months, in case you couldn't tell. That's what happens when an undeserving oaf breathes down your neck, demanding to know why you haven't sold any books yet.) I'm at a point where I need to just go back and re-read from the start to figure out what happens next. I should probably do some actual plotting, too. Like I said, I'm writing it for fun. I love plotting by the seat of my pants.

I'm going to stick Neil Gaiman on for a while and see if it helps me sleep. Let's hear it for The Graveyard Book!

The Joy of Sleep

So last night I dreamt (horribly) that Barack Obama only got 3,000 votes nationwide in the general election. No idea where it came from, but now I'm afraid to go to bed. ("Can't sleep. Neo-cons will eat me. Can't sleep. Neo-cons will eat me.") I'm going to try and wear myself out on the Wii Fit, then take some pain killers.

Smoke me a kipper. I'll be back for sleep through breakfast.

And back to work.

The worst of my insomnia seems to have passed. In its last throes, I worked out a way to shear another 10-20K from my book, which will require a near-total rewrite (AGAIN). This is getting ridiculous. It's what needs to be done, though. Keep telling myself it'll help the story.

As the Import has the day off and is doing nothing more taxing than playing EverQuest, I'm going to see if he'll put the kettle on. This sort of work calls for rooibos in massive amounts.

Starting day three....

In the last 72 hours, I've managed maybe--MAYBE--eight hours of shuteye. This insomnia hits every summer when the mould spore spikes, but it's not normally this bad. Going to try and get something for it tomorrow. I need this mess straightened out at least somewhat before Saturday, because I'm meeting NEIL FUCKING GAIMAN.

Not that "Fucking" is his middle name. According to Wikipedia, it's Richard (which, coincidentally, is my dad's name). But you get the point.

I've had my ticket since April. I'm in the third row for the screening of Beowulf, I have access to the early signing, and I'm going to the post-movie reception. (I splurged on my mad money portion of this year's tax return.) There is no effing way I'm missing this thing due to my immune system's eccentricities. If I have to down a bottle of sherry to knock myself out, well, it's probably a good thing I only buy the small bottles.

Due to the lack of sleep, editing is going very, very slowly because I don't trust my judgement right now. OTOH, knitting is going amazingly well, apart from the lace scarf I tried to start tonight, only for Crowley to jump into my lap and accidentally pull the needle loose. No big. He needed cuddles anyway. I did finish a Victorian-era shawl this evening. The Import thinks it's hideous (it's light grey, with medium grey edging), but I love it to death. My mom, alas, will very likely find a way to claim it for herself. I may have to make another one to fend her off. Keep in mind, the lace scarf is for her. I'm fairly sure any additional claims she lays are payback for the crap I gave her as a child.

All right. I'm terminally awake, so I'm going to be productive. In other words, let's hear it for PBS, Nova, and DVR technology.