Excuse for what? Not to clean or cook, of course. My sister has given me permission not to clean the house until I finish the novel (I guess that had better happen fast, for reasons of health and sanitation). And D is still valiantly cooking his way through the Wok Cookbook.
This morning I was back in Jason's head--I'm quite comfortable in his POV, which maybe should worry me, since he's a little strange and about 30 years younger than I am. But my sister has also given me permission not to worry about anything until I finish the novel, so I'm just dismissing that.
I gave myself permission to read any trashy book I come across (until I finish the novel),
and so yesterday I read Michael Crichton's Sphere
, which I recommend only if you want something that makes you read bits of it aloud to your unwilling partner so he will see how truly ridiculous it is. I suppose though that if I was in a high-minded mood, I might say that it can be read as an extended metaphor of the perils of the writer's dependence on imagination. Don't read it to find out what this means.
Also, at Crazy Diamond's
request, here are pictures of the uncleaned and supremely cluttered living room. Literature comes at a price.
Yes, those are dead flowers.