“This is never going to work.”

Every time I take one of the size eight pairs of jeans out to put on, I look at how small they are and I think, “This is never going to work.” So far, though, it keeps working.

And it struck me that writing is rather a lot like that. Especially doing something like a short story, ’cause I’m not accustomed to them. I’ve got about 3.5K written on this story. My conscious brain keeps thinking, “This is never going to work,” while the rest of me goes ahead and tries it on, as it were. I suspect that over the course of 10,000 words, it is in fact going to work. It always does. (I have this happen with pretty much everything I write, mind you, but when I’m writing something a tenth the length of what I normally write, the “This is never going to work” bit kicks in rather a lot sooner than it would in a novel-length piece. :))

I didn’t make jam yesterday, but I did get berries out to thaw so I can make jam today. I need to do some sanding, some painting, walk the dog, and write some more.

I’m horribly confused at what day it is. Not only is the whole weekends on Thursday and Friday thing confusing, but to compound it, from my point of view the entire first week of August pretty much just went *pft, gone!* because I was out at the cabin for 3 and a half days. So I’m still back there around the 2nd or 3rd, and everybody else is heading into the 8th. And then just the off-set weekends. I was out walking yesterday and seeing people having open houses and things and thinking, “Monday is a VERY WEIRD day to have an open hou…oh. Right. Everybody else thinks it’s Saturday.” Poor easily-confused Kit. :)

All right. Walking. Sanding. Writing. Painting. Which doesn’t leave much time for jam, dammit, but the berries are out so the jam must be made.