Oz Whiston writing as Oz Drummond (birdhousefrog) wrote,
Oz Whiston writing as Oz Drummond

"Hello! My Name Is Oz And I'm A Procrastinator!"

(What I really want is a t-shirt that says "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.")

Yes, and my blogging is just that at this particular moment. But I tell myself if I clear this off my list, then I'll get back to editing.

Another blog barks: "The latest issue of Analog had no really noteworthy short stories..."


He's entitled to his opinion, but I guess he won't be nominating me for a Hugo this year, will he? And no, I'm not going to link to his entry, which has nothing specific to say, just that general comment. That will teach me to go googling this stuff, won't it?

Meanwhile, what was supposed to be a 2 week job turned into a 2 month job. I just checked the calendar and G Dude was here for 2 months. No wonder my checkbook hurts so much. But pretty floors! Pretty walls! Pretty deck! Etc.

And the reason I checked my calendar is because I've been wallowing in the silence. No conversation, no extraneous noise during my worktime. Not that I'm working as much as I should be. Nope. I'm just wallowing. It's a nice wallow.

The deadline for the nonfiction came. I turned in the initial drafts. It would have been better to be finished with the edits, but things are moving along. It's coming to a close. Sort of sad, but I do have some fiction I'd like to work on. Just as soon as I get rid of some pesky tax returns.

We did actually put some furniture, carefully, into the sitting room. The Dude would like a solar tube for light, which is fine by me. Whatever makes it the most wonderful place to sit is fine by me. We spend a lot of time there, especially once we start burning wood. Speaking of which, the woodpile needs to be worked on. Splitting, stacking.

About ten days ago, on a Sunday, the hens were having fits at 6pm or so. So it wasn't about eggs, they don't lay in the evening. And none were in sight. We went down finally and discovered that a hawk was sitting on Miss E's roof. Just sitting. And all the hens were in the tall weeds, hiding and complaining. The hawk wasn't particularly concerned. And it was less than half the size of a chicken. So I think they were being a bit silly.

We lost another of the old girls, the one with no name. Featherless Biped is looking a bit slow, she's been huddled, but is now moving about more. So we're on chicken death watch.

Frog Out, on a beautiful fall day
Tags: farm, house, not writing, procrastination, re\creation

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