Checking in on Monday

Mom went home on Thursday, now that my foot is rather close to fully functioning. The throbbing pain in my heel has returned and I keep it elevated when I rest, but it's much better than it was. I think my "no pain" reaction last week was a bit of numbness after the procedure. I have no doubt, however, that my doc will keep with it until it IS fully functioning. Right now it feels like I've strained my Achilles' tendon, which isn't bad less than a week on from being in the hospital.

In other news, Alphasmarts are awesome. I bought one second hand from my friend Liz (now that she has a new laptop), and Thursday I wrote 1,100 words like breathing. Something about the limiting 4-6 lines of type keeps me from fiddling and re-reading stuff I've already written, and the no-interet-access, no-distracting-programs feature means I stay on task. Nice.

Speaking of computers, my laptop got very, very sick on Friday. It was already vulnerable and had contracted a virus the week before, but this was the tired old thing's death knell. Luckily, the slow fade into utter uselessness happened over three days, when Keven and I were able to rescue everything of value. I suppose that means I shouldn't take my new computer to skanky file sharing areas of the Internet anymore? Yes, I said new computer. Saturday night I ordered a new HP Slimline desktop with a 19" flat panel monitor, a machine that is incalculably faster and more powerful for 35% less than I paid for my laptop back in 2006. My Alphasmart will be my portable device.

Tonight I'm off to Chicago North where I'll read one of my WIPs to the group for critique. I dread/love this. It's instant feedback, which is good, and it's instant feedback, which makes me nauseous. Here's a sample:

Vivienne, Viscountess Bancroft, stared at a shelf of books and idly picked at the fraying corner of her lace handkerchief. Her loud, arrogant, bombastic father, Sir William Christie, was dead. His lavish funeral had come and gone, well-attended despite a chilly afternoon perched on the edge of autumn. Now, three weeks later, as those rituals and eulogies softened to dreamlike detachment, Viv waited for the reading of his will.

She waited to breathe again.

Not for the first time, she dwelled on whether she'd done enough to prove herself to her father, the colossal shadow that loomed over her whole life. Had she repaid his kindness when she was nothing but a dead Frenchwoman's brat? Had she hidden her resentment when he'd treated her that way? The terms of his will would determined her future. Anything less than a full share of the inheritance meant a return to the gutters, back to the rabble and filth of her childhood.

Or back to England, back to her husband.


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