No, I haven't been replaced by sinister aliens from the planet Finney. I taped a podcast today, part of a new series that the Fairfax County Library is producing. I'll post a link when it's edited and posted. My voice was still a little hoarse, but I could actually make audible sounds for the most part, which was a relief.
And Penguins has gone back to St. Martin's with revisions, which means I'm free to do all those lovely things I was planning to do when I finished the book, like. . . um . . .
Somehow, projects that seemed ever so interesting when I had to discipline myself not to do them fail to inspire me now. ("No, you cannot begin reorganizing the garage today. You have a book to write. No, cleaning the basement isn't on the agenda. You have a book. No, weeding the entire yard today is a bad idea--did you forget about that book?") It's called writing avoidance. I'm expert at it.
Luckily, some parts of my garden continue to thrive despite the relative neglect they've received this summer. Not necessarily the parts I want to thrive. I've got a few roses, a few lilies, and. . . well, weeds. Weeds abound. And at some point, the guy who was mowing my lawn disappeared, and I haven't been able to find a replacement. Maybe I'm being too honest about what the job involves. "Basically, I have hay," is what I've been saying. Maybe I should change that to "It's a little overgrown." Then again, they'd see how bad it is when they got here. No way I could get someone to mow this meadow with a blindfold. So I've plugged in my electric lawnmower, just in case. I have a feeling I may need to bail myself out of this one.
And if I need some motivation to get going on it, I'll just commit to writing a short story or an article. Give myself some writing to avoid.