I may have mentioned I'm doing a big project at work with lots and lots and lots and lots of documents. I've spent the week typing and fiddling and formatting and typing some more.
All while dealing with a sudden fit of cranky pants. You know, the sort of mood where someone could hand you a million dollar cheque and the typeface would annoy you so badly you'd want to punch them. The sort of mood where you're probably best staying home in bed with the covers over your head not talking to anyone because talking annoys you. But that isn't really an option so instead you get up and move through the days with sort of rumbling refrain of 'grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh' in the back of your mind. As you type and type and type. The type of mood that isn't improved by inutterably tragic events unfolding. So you type and type and type and snarlingly demand what the heck is going on to the universe and offer prayers for the lost and the grieving.
And then if you're lucky, and believe me, I know I am unbelievably fortunate, you get to come home and type some more.
I feel like there's a Word toolbar floating in front of my eyes. I think I'm going to switch for Scrivener and alphie for the weekend, if only for the change of scenery. I managed to sweat out the cranky pants on the elliptical the other night but I'm still feeling a little typed out. And I have a crick in my neck that's going to be remedied by my wonderful chiro tomorrow. I hope. Otherwise I might just be putting the cranky pants back on.
I mean, I like words. I'm a writer. But sometimes you get sick on black on white and the tip tap tap of the keyboard for hours on end. I'd swap to longhand but this story doesn't seem to want long hand at the moment. So more typing it is. Another 26 pages and I'll hit 200. Or halfway. I hope. Should be do-able in a weekend. If I don't commit word-processor-a-cide in the meantime.
Let's hope the world is a better place next week.