Sleeve of Night and Morn, Edmund Dulac
I’m turning over leaves, leaves of thought, trying to decide where to begin The Foreigner, what the opening will be. I’m not thinking about the words but about the heartbeat of that first scene, about where it will point. The way the NaNo draft begins right now is the wrong place.
Yesterday, I noticed that by the end of the day every day I’m cold and irritated. Cold because every day in the office the temperature drops to the point where my nose becomes a nub of ice (no thermostat control here) and I sit at my computer waiting for snow to fall in my office. My eyes are tired and I feel slightly nauseous. I want to go home and stay there for the rest of the year.