January 13th, 2016

(no subject)

If I weren't a writer, my life would force me to be. In narrative terms, the moment the outside temperature hit 100 (which is a more narratively splendid number than the temperature in Celsius, even though the temperature in Celsius was a bit over a hundred) things have gone wrong. Most of them are small things but a couple were quite large. I'm hoping the sequence will change with the weather ie tomorrow, but if real life doesn't copy fiction then maybe good things will start before then.

In the meantime, characters have to do their bit for the story so for every thing that goes wrong I'm completing a counterpart. This means my tasks this afternoon include applying for a job, sending a story to market, watching a DVD, finishing an academic article and finishing a popular article. The heat wave lasts until tomorrow afternoon, so that's how long I've got to accomplish my sequence of narrative. And there's my normal work on top of this.

The real advantage of a heat wave isn't in inventing story, it's that it will be too hot to sleep until at least 3 am, so I have plenty of time to do a great deal of things. Just as long as no-one minds how tired and bedraggled I am while I do them.

I knew this afternoon would be too hot for work. I've known since I charted the probable temperature changes this week on Monday, when my body gave me clear indication of what was going to happen. I didn't calculate, however, on all my plans going awry. I ought to be sitting in front of the TV, watching the work-related DVD and letting my brain do the thinking for everything else. Instead I really wish I had a friend who could ring and say "Let's go to the new exhibition at the lovely air-conditioned library and let's stay there until closing time."