les jours, ils marchent

[hawkwing_lb]

Alors, j'ai finit le livre de Patrick Modiano, Le chien de printemps. Maintenant je ne peux pas éprouver -

- No, I will stop talking French.

Literature makes my head hurt.

In the good news section, however, there is a small - very tiny - possibilty that I might be able to get involved in freelance journalism. I am currently sitting on my hopes, but the (tiny, tiny) possibility is there. It's something I've always wanted to do, so - good news!

Which helps damp out the less good news that I have two weeks to do three - no, four - assignments. Add in self-assigned work, and that bumps the total up to seven or eight: about 12,000 words. Not including research.

Sigh. Off to do work.

ETA: This does not include self-assigned work on That Novel, either. Can we institute 36-hour days now, please?

Comments

[davefreer.livejournal.com]

days are elastic. It's sleep that can only be compressed so far. So what is this about journalism?

[hawkwing-lb.livejournal.com]

It is the tiny, tiny, tiniest possibilty in existence. But before that happens, I must write something topical (fiction just won't do, you know) and thus far I have had no time.

I'm thinking of dedicating tomorrow morning to writing about Tutankhamen and the new tomb found in Egypt. URLs to useful Tut/Carter info shamelessly solicited :-).

And as it is already tomorrow morning, now I must sleep.

[etumukutenyak.livejournal.com]

The problem with elastic -- as I'm sure you've noticed -- is that not only does it snap back at one unexpectedly, resulting in sudden pain and distress, but also as it ages it loses its elasticity. The Final Stretch occurs, and you are left with limp bands, shedding particles of elastic. Very sad.