Zomg, I forgot how *easy* having hair this short was. I was in the shower and I was like *washwash* dude I’m done! Two minutes tops! I wanna go swimming! (All I need is money to pay for a pool worth swimming in…) Also, Ted, Hero of the Revolution, found my sassy glasses, which are FEROCIOUSLY cute with this haircut. And my Matrix sunglasses and this haircut = badass Kit. I’m featured this week over at Harlequin’s paranormal romance blog, where I talk about HOUSE OF CARDS and … mostly…
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chd strikes but good!
A few weeks ago, in a fit of frustration at my hair, I trimmed my bangs a bit, and spent the last few weeks astonished at how much more pleasant it was to not have those long fringes in the way. I liked that I could see my face better. So I went to the stylist today and had them re-do the color on my bangs first, while I considered the rest of my hair, so I sat there looking at myself for the better part of an hour (which…
compulsive hair disorder
P-Con is in two days. I keep considering showing up with a shiny new v. short haircut. I have deduced that I feel my hair should either be short enough to show my ears, or long enough to pull back, because with this chin-length bob I never wear earrings, and there’s no point in having five ear holes into which I never put earrings. And in looking at pictures of me with long hair, I don’t actually *like* long hair on me very much, which suggests short is perhaps the…
*props eyes open with toothpicks*
Sitting down to write this morning presented me with another stage of the mid-book blues: I discovered that I was so uncertain as to the quality and story-telling appropriateness of everything leading up to where I was that I couldn’t convince myself that if I just kept going forward, it would be okay. This also happens pretty much every time. So I printed the bloody thing out, and am now reading it. Reading my own work at this stage is one of the most mind-numbing things in existence. I just…
:p
I have reached the part of the book where I’m quite certain nothing I’ve written hangs together, that it’s all a bunch of drifty crap that has no integral structure, where the end is so far away that it will never actually be reached but I’m really more than ready to be done writing, and I just know that when I turn this disasterous lump into my editor she’s going to first weep, then try to gently break it to me that my career is over and I should make…