My sciatic nerve is angry again. I do not like it when it’s angry.
It’s the Week of Birthdays around here. Happy birthday (in order): Mike, Ryan, David, Lisa, Wendy (UPDATE YER BLOG, GIRL), and Sarah. You are all far too damn old, but it’s better than the alternative.
Last week, there was a meme going around LJ in which authors were posting lists of the novels they’d completed, including those that hadn’t sold. I thought about my own craptastic teenage writing — and I thank God that most of it was either lost or destroyed — and remembered that I still haven’t finished transcribing all my old notebooks. As I flipped through them looking for the story I wanted to type up, I found the long-lost opening chapter of another book — which has been lost for so long that I actually thought I’d hallucinated it. But no, it’s there, with a note in the margin telling me exactly when and where it was written. Thanks a bunch, Younger Me! You knew our memory would be complete shit by age 30, didn’t you?