zygomatic, xiphoid
March means GRE study has started—so you read the poems, sometimes the poems make you weepy, you try to memorize them anyway. Better this than all the bones and tendons and osseous processes in the human body, which my sister has to learn by rote.
The current shape of the book is a Part One consisting of chapters 1-8, followed by a Part Two about half its size with chapters 9-12. Yesterday I read Part One in its entirety; aside from the usual line edits there's maybe a week of cleanup to do. That's not bad. It could have been a train wreck. But Part Two is on much shakier ground and will take much longer—and I think there's a limit to how much more time I can spend. I'm getting so weary of these characters and this story. And that means the prose starts to slip, and the psychological sea changes get rushed, and then we're fucked. Once the life goes out of it, you can't fake continued interest; the reader knows.
At least I have a holiday in Oregon to look forward to.
Sunny skies. They train people for Middle East combat out here. We're what, maybe a week from war?
