I Will Be Bionic

Went back to the foot doctor today. The bad bunion puts my toe at over a 20% tilt from where a toe ought to be. The plan is: cut off the bunion, break the toe and remove a pie-shaped slice so that it will sit at a more normal angle, reattach the toe-bone with a metal screw. After which, exeunt all, singing (well, not actually singing. Maybe the doctor, who's a huge musical theatre fan, but I expect and hope to be well drugged). As ridiculous a thing as this is to be doing, the other toes on that foot are beginning to suffer from lack of room in my shoes. So: September 1, my appointment with foot destiny. After which, six weeks in a walking cast (four of those on crutches and not walking) and then sneakers for a while. But I should be movable in time for World Fantasy and Bouchercon--my secret plans.

Now, if I can get the doctor to put in a metal screw with a death ray or something cool in it, we'll be cooking with gas microwaves gas.

Meanwhile: I Hate Writing Love Scenes

Even when (as right now) I think I've established that the two parties do love each other and it's only the admission thereof (and the inevitable repercussions) that have to be written. They just feel...squirmy, not in the Oooo, Ick sense, but in the sense that I so often feel I'm not saying exactly what I want the characters to say. Or what they want me to make them say. Or what the narrative needs them to say.

I will go back and sandblast this scene later, I know. I just hate writing love scenes (it's one reason I stopped writing romances. The other: I really hate writing sex scenes).

And Because Life Loves Me Soooo Much

While I was at the dog park with Emily, two big dogs--a three legged boxer named Oscar and a big chow-husky mix, were chasing each other around and slammed into me, knocking me sideways. I felt my ankle pop. Then I felt it pop again. Skye, one of the dogwalkers, gave me and the Em Dog a lift home and I am now icing my ankle. But really: any time you want to Stop With The Fun, life, that'd be fine.