It's Saturday, sunny and clement, and a little dusty inside. The dust is kicked up from all the crap we're moving around: storage boxes coming up from the basement, books and videos being sorted into smaller boxes for dissemination, larger boxes filled with blankets and pillows for donation; all the tape peeled off the wooden window frames, all the windows being thrown open, all in the name of SPRING CLEANING.
I'm moving these things promptly, too. I e-mailed my sister, asking if she wanted the children's bed sets I dug out (Peanuts, Care Bears, and Boynton dinosaurs); she did and they're set aside to wait for her. I e-mailed Jarrin to see if his odeon could use any large sitting pillows; when he came over to collect them, he also claimed the large box of quilts and blankets I was unloading. That's real progress!
Now a cool breeze blows through the sunroom. I'm pouring little steel cups of caramel Irish creme for myself, Rebecca's watching the latest episode of The Daily Show, and the cats are sniffing the fresh air outside or curling up in pools of sunlight on the living room rug.
Yes, tonight I will write another short story, no idea what it's about, but I haven't forgotten. It will be my third, leaving eleven left to go. This should be no problem--when my two weeks are up, I'll continue writing for as long as I think of it. In fact, I should go to my professional page and set up that list of the 154 best novels since 1923, which I'm slowly chipping away at. I think it's not unhelpful for a writer/editor to have such a demonstration that he's well-read.