If Wishes were Fishes

I want to curl up with a book. The sky can be gray, that's all right. The cats should be close, and if there's a fire going, I'd be happy. I want to be perfectly dry and warm and comfortable. It's important not to be too warm. And the book should be interesting, and the pages well lit.

For the Seattle trip, I took "Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell." It's okay, a little dry, Jane Austen-ish without the squee. (Mark the occasion. I never use the word squee.) I'm only 250 pages in, so who knows.

There's not much for me to do at work. I'm below the radar since my boss is no longer with the company and there are backup plans in place. I'm free to surf the web and make moving checklists and use company bandwidth for frivolous pursuits. Time moves slowly when I'm being frivolous.

I'd like to write something more substantial, something with meat. Maybe plot. Something that goes beyond a daily checklist. And I want to do it in front of a fantastic view of the Seattle skyline. I think life can oblige.