I'm having one of those days where I cannot be bothered getting cranky. This is undoubtedly a good thing, because we don't need to be cranky all the time; I just like getting a bit arced up and then blogging to blow off steam, that's all.
I'm guess I'm what the youngsters call 'total chill' at the moment. I've had a few days alone, in which I mastered the ancient Zen art of Not Giving A Fuck. Before I reached this No-Fucks-Given Nirvana, I had to complete a task, and that task was to finish reading the manuscript of the upcoming Howling on A Concrete Moon - again! - and only found three corrections to be done. Only three! I am soooo excited. Soon I will have Mr Bingells do my author photo for the back cover. Mr Bingells is a keen photographer, and I think a very good one. He's had a photograph published in the RM Williams mag, so that counts for something:
He made that shabby old tractor a vision of delight, so I'm sure he will again do the same for me (after I've had my hair cut and coloured).
I guess as a writer I've put so much effort and stress into finalising the manuscript, and the fact I'm almost bursting through the finishing tape is a load off my mind.
So, over the past few days I've just watched some DVDs. I've also compiled some material for my tutoring sessions. The sessions don't start until school resumes, but it's best to get a head start on things. One of the things I did today was source and print a template for cursive writing. It's ironic, me pointing out some of the niceties of cursive writing given my handwriting as a child was beyond dreadful. Many a teacher lost his/her cool at me. I still recall one nun visiting our classroom when I was aged nine, looking over everyone's shoulders at the work being done. This nun was also principal of the school, so I guess it was an indignity we had to suffer: having this nosy old habit-clad crone peering over our shoulders. She made her way across and down the aisles. She was smooth and silent. Some would say she was graceful, but I reckon she was like the Grim Reaper on roller skates. She made comments to some children, nodded at some, frowned at some, and then looked at my workbook, whereupon she lost her shit. She ranted and shouted like something possessed, stopping just short at having her head spin around. 'Look at that untidy writing, Simone Bailey!' she shouted, and I said there thinking: Yeah, what's your point? She was dour at the best of times, unaccommodating, shitful, and chockers with spite. The only time I ever saw her smile was when Gough Whitlam was dismissed. She was a nasty piece of work, all right. I think she might be still alive. This surprises me; I thought she would have choked on her own bile years ago. On the other hand, she's probably just Undead, so maintains a semblance of life. I used to annoy her by my very existence, and she was almost a cliché of the nasty old nun that people of a certain age shudder over when reminiscing about school days.
Thinking about her makes me glum. You know what else makes me glum? I'm working tomorrow, after a week's holiday. Bum, bum, bum. But anyway, next week I can check those corrections and move on to the next exciting chapter (no pun intended) of getting my latest novel to print.
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