Apologies. My muse took a vacation this week. She still hasn’t returned from Helsinki or wherever it was she went.
Her absence has had devastating effects. Remind me to give her a raise.
Devastating effect one: This post is really boring. I’d like to think my blog can be funny or entertaining. Today it is neither. You may wish to stop reading now. Wouldn’t blame you.
Devastating effect two: I have not written my article, due Wednesday.
Devastating effect three: I have not written my other article, also due Wednesday.
Devastating effect four: I’m in a reading malaise. I’ve told myself that I must begin serious work on the Women’s Nonfiction book come August (which starts this Wednesday, for those of you seeking a pattern). Nothing productive has happened this past month, unless you count reading the entire Harry Potter series and attending the related social functions. (Look at the pictures, ably taken by a cataloger and a staff husband, here, and here, and here. Can you pick me out? Hint: I’m the one whose hair is a color that rhymes with wink.)
With this looming deadline of cracking down and writing my damn book, I’ve been trying to squeeze in all sorts of good, last-minute reading. It’s been disappointing. Jeffery Deaver’s Sleeping Doll, though interesting, did not have the psychological intensity of his Lincoln Rhyme series.
Heart-Shaped Box was disappointing. Couldn’t even bring myself to finish it. I kept wishing Joe Hill was his dad, Stephen King. That’s not really fair to Mr. Hill, but even trying to read it for its own sake was a letdown. Then again, I haven’t read any good Horror in years, unless you count An Inconvenient Truth.
Now I am reduced to reading a book about pigeons and a book of English history. This is not exactly what I had in mind when I envisioned a last-days-of-freedom-before-writing mega book-a-thon. For one thing, I didn’t anticipate all those hyphens.
Devastating effect five: Even at the library I’m slogging though my work—though, to be fair to myself, I think this is because of the nature of the work. I’m taking the books in my computer collection and recataloging them.
Let me speak more precisely, since the cataloger who reads this might get irritated with my sloppy language. I am not recataloging, exactly; I am merely assigning and affixing new call numbers. In a few cases I am adding or changing subject headings, but mainly I’m giving the books a different Dewey number. (This would all be moot if I worked at this one library in Arizona.)
This is important work, mind. By reassigning call numbers, I’m ensuring that books of similar subjects are grouped right next to each other. I’m also adding the year of publication to the call number, so that you can tell at a glance if this Microsoft Word book is too old for you. Very important stuff, this. But mind-numbing, absolutely tedious.
Here’s hoping my muse gets back soon. Wednesday’s right around the corner.