Computer mouse died yesterday, after four pages of notes. Maybe it's a sign of maturity, but my first reaction was "okay, shut down and the documents will be rescued tomorrow, when the new mouse is in." Which they were, and are now in their proper files.
Work is progressing quite well on TWR, and I think I'm connecting with this h/h better than I have with those of the previous two (did I just say previous two? Yoikes. I must be a real writer.) books. Which is only natural. I'm a book and change better (still have a bit to go on OitS) than when I sat down to write My Outcast Heart. If I weren't, then something would be very very wrong. I hope the book after this one, whatever it may be, will be even better yet.
Evangeline has a pertinent point in her most recent blog entry. There is writing, and then there is writing the stuff we LOVE. I think every time I sit down at the puter, or open a notebook, I'm getting one step closer to that.
It takes some confidence to grab a decades-long love (of historical romance; we'll save the dh for another entry, and we've only had each other for one decade and change anyway, so we have a bit more to go before we hit decades, plural) mush it about so that it's living and breathing today.
There's been some time since I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom for the sole purpose of locking the door so I could read Shirlee Busbee's The Spanish Rose while my dad was doing yardwork. (Yes, Kate, still in the teen years there; I was precocious.) Still, the same sort of books are what draw me again and again -- big, thick historicals with high emotional stakes. Heroes and heroines who have a few sharp edges. Now I'm putting myself in the mood for a reread. :)
In the completely trivial news, I have been playing with the scroll button on the new mouse more than is probably prudent.