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December 4th, 2017

"All my life, waiting to find."

Sunny and cold. Currently, it's 43˚F, with a windchill of 39˚F.

Yesterday didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I only made it about halfway through the galleys for Black Helicopters. In part because the book is always longer than I remember. In part because the whole electronic document, "track changes" editing thing is driving me crazy. It's a bullshit way to edit, it's a bullshit thing to inflict on authors who were not raised on computers and weened on social media. Add to this the fact that copy editors inevitably confound me. "Well, didn't you mean this? Of course you did, let me just change this for you. There. I've never published a word in my life, but I've rewritten your sentence for you. Isn't it better now?" And me being me, after this happens a few dozen times, I lose the ability to tell whether the uninvited changes they've made actually better than what I wrote. I fucking hate this job.

Last night, like most nights, TV. Besides the episodes of Shameless and SMILF, we saw the first four episodes of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which is very funny and generally delightful and makes me homesick for the world before this world (it's set in 1956, only four years before I was born), the authentic world. But these days, most things make me homesick for the authentic world.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast




3:29 p.m.