So, I did drive down to the family cabin again, and while it was nice, and I'd gladly do it again, I didn't get nearly as much done this trip as I did the last. Last time, I started on a secret project (am I still keeping that a secret?) and was quite proud of myself, writing three or four thousand words on it. This time, I opened up that document (literally on the same scene where I left off), and wrote about two hundred more words before deciding to do something else.
I did edit audio for a few hours, and I did read a great deal--which made it feel like a vacation rather than a writing retreat--and I did record an episode for the Greatest Day of the Year(TM), but all in all, it felt like I did less with more time.* When I went down in July, I only brought one DVD with me, and when it was finished, I forced myself to write and edit again. This time, I had planned ahead, and had a lot more to watch when that single DVD ran out.
Even so, I could have done worse. I have still written every day this month, and edited audio every day as well. I just need to do it more.
So, in my last check-in (and probably every podcast and blogpost for the past eight months), I mentioned the episode of The Rish Outcast I most dread. Well, I spent a good long time working on it at the cabin, and it's nearly ready to go. In my mind, it'll drop next month, in between "Sleeptalk" and "Romantic Interlude." But wow, I am so not wanting to put it out. Do I dare charge my Patreons for something like that, or do I have to simply turn off my brain when it comes to that and automatically charge for episodes, whether they're full of encouraging words and poor impressions or not?
This is apropos of nothing, but I took my nephew to a small town festival last month, and while I had a good time, it was a hundred degrees out, and he liked it less than I did. The one thing he was impressed by, of all the crafts and costumes and wares being sold and at least one Goth chick with lots of pale cleavage, was a booth where they were raffling off a Nintendo Switch, and if you entered, they'd give you a free fidget spinner. So, I tossed the guy a buck, filled out a ticket, and, ignorantly gave the guy my email address (he said it was necessary to let us know if we'd won the Nintendo).
My nephew was pretty thrilled with the fidget spinner, and I'll admit that I found it pretty darn fascinating as well (about on the same level as pale-college-student-dressed-as-vampire-cleavage, at least at first) . . . but then, a couple of days later, I started getting spam in my email box. And not just one or two, which is forgivable, but I just looked, and there were five in my box today, and it's only 9:35 in the morning.
I'm half tempted to write a scene where Lara Demming's sister does this, keeps getting spam, and Lara complains to Old Widow Holcomb about it. So Holcomb teaches her a "harmless curse of inconvenience" that the girl casts on the spammers. Later, Lara sees on the news that a local businessman, who sets up booths at town celebrations obtaining email addresses and then selling them overseas, has drowned himself in his own toilet. "I wonder if he flushed first," the anchorman's partner asks, flashing white teeth.
Lara feels uneasy about this, but chalks it up to a coincidence, or something totally unrelated . . . not knowing that over a dozen others in Bangladesh also drowned themselves in the crapper.
Sigh.
Rish Outfield, Chalupa Guy
*I had made a point of arriving earlier and leaving later than I did the time before, but the only really efficient use of my time is when I fell asleep at one-thirty, and woke when it was still dark, trying to go back to sleep, and ultimately giving up and turning on the light (it was four-twenty-one) to read my book again until I feel asleep. And when I did, I still woke up as soon as the sun hit me, despite setting my alarm for what I consider to be pretty darn early. I don't know why the cabin does that to me. Maybe the bed is just that uncomfortable.
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