Just another day of revision...

My web browser has tabs open to the UC Davis Veterinary Medicine page, the Doctor of Vet Med curriculum, a search result on crisis pregnancy centres, a page of search results on 'adoption in the 1980s', a history of forced sterilisation in the US, a calendar for 2004, several Google street views of Las Vegas, the Wikipedia page for second-wave feminism, several photographs of New England lobster boats and Floridian crab boats, the Web MD brief history of mifepristone, and Amazon pages for Building Your Cult: Power, Politics, and People and Combatting Cult Mind Control, two indispensable volumes for the modern reader.  Drugs don't get much of a look-in this time because I did way more research than was really necessary for The Shore, and I have the kind of freaky memory that can't recall my spouse's birthday but can perfectly recall useless information from years ago.

The good thing about all that is that the novel is no longer riddled with embarrassing notes like (insert two paragraph description of a crab boat). The bad thing is that it's starting to get too long to be easy to handle, which is odd because it seemed almost too short to be a proper novel, both when I was first writing it and every time I look at the skinny little notebooks in which I wrote it. I have an unhealthy preoccupation with tracking my progress in fractions, which gets more difficult at a certain length because Word gives up on providing a word count once the 100,000 word mark is reached. After 99,999 you're on your own for some reason.

Pictured: the moment before I stopped being able to figure out exactly how many words I had left to clean up without a serious amount of jiggery-pokery.

The beast still lacks a title, but I'm starting to be a little less ashamed of it, or most of it at any rate. Though I do wonder what the NSA makes of my Google habits.

Note to self

It's a pain to keep track of timeline and continuity in a rough draft. But it's even more of a pain to piece together timeline and continuity from context clues in a later draft and have to rework it all because your characters have somehow lived through three summers in a row and the year you've described is only five months long.

On a related note, Present Sara really has it in for Past Sara today.

Home for the summer

Hope finally glimmers through the clouds - I'm finished in Norwich, barring calamity, until things kick off again in the new term. Which means that this past weekend the incomparable spouse-thing drove up to Norwich, carried my suitcase, books, papers, assorted odds and ends required for daily functioning, assorted groceries that I hadn't had the organisational skills to use up in time, and a rather large potted succulent called Lazarus (due to my failure to kill said plant despite no plant-related skills whatsoever and a larger share than normal of plant-related bad luck) down three flights of stairs, packed it all in the car while leaving sufficient space for me, and hauled the lot the ± three hours to Reading with exceeding good humour. 

The plant that could not be killed

I had thought that by the time I got to be this old I'd be done with the whole student move-out-for-the-summer-move-back-when-school-starts thing. Oh well. 

I still have a paper to write for the Higher Education Practice training course that's kept me in Norwich for so long after the end of term, along with supervisors' marching orders and several inboxes to excavate, but at least I don't have any more train journeys to look forward to for a few months. And around about when the weather started improving (I don't say 'got nice' because it's still pretty dang chilly and wet in Reading for some reason) Dave started getting antsy about finishing all of the around-the-house projects that he was too busy to tackle when he first moved in, and the first of those just happens to be turning the junk room into my office. This could have been accomplished by sticking a desk in the room and calling the job done, but he's still in nesting mode and wants to Do It Right, which means I've learned way more about the composition of a 1960s era council house than I cared to. With any luck the whole thing will be done in the next few weeks and I can stop getting sighed at for scratching the dining room table.

Excessive, joyous squealing.

Ali Smith has won the Women's Prize with the incomparable How to be Both!

I'll just be in my corner, doing my happy dance.

Reading at UEA

Popping this up before I forget about it again. Given that it's a UEA Prose MA party there is almost guaranteed to be wine that is nearly as good as the fiction being read. And I can tell you, having met/heard/read this lot before, the fiction that will be read is seriously good.