Addendum: I think that I am, at this moment, approaching some sort of frustration critical mass. I'm having to waste so much energy breathing through my stuffy nose, and breathing is proving such a distraction, that trying to get back into "Bradbury Weather" seems next to impossible. Sometimes, next to impossible is worse than genuine impossible. If it were merely genuine impossible, I could just go lie down somewhere and moan. I'd settle for that. But I feel just good enough that I'll have to deal with Guilt and it's brethren if I slack off just because of a snotty nose, racking cough, and sore throat. To make matters worse, I need to read through what I've written on the story thus far, about 7,00 words, to get the tone, the mood, the feel of the story back into my head. And I need to read it aloud, or have it read to me aloud, but Spooky and I both sound like frogs right now, and reading aloud only leads to coughing, anyway. So. Crap. I want to finish this story, because I like where it's going and because I want and need to get started on Daughter of Hounds, and I am cursed with this frelling summer headcold. I am imminently distractable, kiddos, and nothing distracts me like discomfort.