I now have a new regard for people who pack for moving companies. Packing is incredibly hard work, although I suppose some of my problem is that I am doing a lot of thinking as well. Keep or donate? What room will it go in the new house (which has rooms, like offices and dens, that we don’t have now). And should I separate the pleasure reading books in a box for the den, and the writing books for a box for the office? Luckily, the move is far enough off I can make these fine distinctions. The time will come soon when things will be swept into boxes labelled “dreck” and “scheiße,” in the heat of the moment.
On to RoW80 goals. I had to catch up on a course I am taking for the day job, which manages to be boringly simple and yet a lot of work. For a discipline that was originally based in Schools of Education more often than not, Library Science has a lot to learn about pedagogy. I therefore haven’t had the breaks to sprint and get my words in as often as I would like, but I do sneak in a few minutes now and again.
I missed the Sunday check-in, sadly. I have to hold on to the fact that there will be more time and emotional space next Round when I am unpacking boxes in the new house. I will continue to strive for consistency in checking in and responding to comments.
Please go check out how all the other RoWers are doing here.
For WIPpet Wednesday, I offer more of a piece that I put up last week. I realize the previous offering came rather in the middle of things, so I will give you the beginning of the story. Here are 23 (5+18) rough sentences from the scene where the main characters from last week meet.
There is something about a man in uniform, so I was delighted when I walked into a party filled with GIs. They all acted as though they hadn’t seen a woman in months, the way I had to fight my way through them. Most were respectful, and I was enjoying the attention, looking about at the manhood on display. I noticed a tall American is his lovely olive green uniform, medals parading in tidy lines across his chest. Even at my encouraging smile, he hung back–shy? Uninterested? I was intrigued, as always, by the one who didn’t fall at my feet. My attention caught by him, I failed to notice a drunken soldier shouldering his way through his friends. “Kiss me, honey! I love you English roses!” assaulted my ear, meaty hands closing around my waist as I was spun toward the new arrival in my coterie of admirers. Before he could finish his drunken cry, or get anywhere near my lips, he was picked up, still pursed-lipped, and efficiently and firmly removed to a safe distance by the tall American.
“Do you want to dance?” my savior asked. I felt a warm victory that I had not lost my touch–he was shy, not uninterested. He grabbed my hand, and steered us through the press to the dance floor. “I’m not very good,” he said. “I’ve not had a chance to practice in a while.” His baritone voice was warm and soft, flowing over my skin such that I would have sworn I could feel it. His hand enveloped mine so completely, my long fingers felt small and delicate in comparison. His other hand spread across the small of my back, so warm that I could imagine its imprint leaving a mark upon my dress. He was leading me efficiently, skillfully guiding us through the crush, avoiding most of the people bent on stepping on me, and putting paid to his claim of not being a very good dancer. He was perfectly proper, but his hands sparked nerves all the way down my arm to my chest, and felt like an intimate caress at my back. The crush on the floor soon turned the entire dance rather more intimate than planned, as we were slowly pushed ever closer and closer till I could feel his heart beating, and moving in the dance steps was becoming, well, a bit improper.
He bent down so that I could hear him, unconsciously stirring me with his warm breath in my ear, “Let’s go outside for some air.” I went up on my toes to answer in his ear—all’s fair in love and war—“yes, please.”
There are a cadre of WIPpeteers here who would love to have you join them.