Winter finds out what summer lays up.

Reading too much to make up for some time when I wasn’t reading nearly enough. Looking back over recent scenes and grimacing at the clangor of the language; didn’t I hear any of that when I set it down? No? At least I’ve pressed on past what there was of no. 12 last week. —Also, last week I set up the new bookshelves and now my office-cum-library is finally for the most part settled; there is a place for nearly everything, and nearly everything is in its place; but if I buy another armload of books I’ll need another set of shelves, dammit. (The Spouse asks whether I’ve thought of taking some back, and laughs pitilessly at my quizzical confusion. —Back? Back where?) —Waiting, waiting: that one thing depends on year-end meetings pushed into the year begun, the one story out making the rounds still hangs fire (almost six months gone, now): perhaps I should get more than a line down on the next? If writing no. 12’s like pulling teeth? But no: the web is a customer service medium and real editors ship, dammit, and don’t talk to me about teeth. —At least I’m sparing you my insights into Mary Poppins as an urban fantasy. —I’m feeling the itch to redesign, to rip the pier and the city down to the foundation stones and rebuild it all leaner and cleaner; it is to be hoped good sense will prevail in this (as in all things), but the nights are long these days. —Anyway, that’s by me. How’s your discontent?