On the plane to Chicago. Sarah had to work today; she was able to take time off to get me to the airport, but couldn’t stay. Norfolk’s airport is small and boring. I’ve finished the book I started reading last night. Luckily, because I’d noticed that it was going fast, I brought a second one—a paranormal romance about a plane that disappears (I think there’s an alien abduction). Not the smartest plane reading, perhaps—although I have no fear of flying myself.

I’m sad to be leaving, but it’ll be good to be home. In some ways. I have, predictably, a ton of stuff to do. Someone dropped the ball on something that should have been done for an upcoming event that Maren and I are running, so as of this morning’s e-mail, I’ve had to add that emergency item to the list. (I’m pretty angry about this—I was responsible and tried to sort everything out well before I left, and apparently my efforts were for nothing.) I also have to get the GP done ASAP. That said, writing will not be left for last. Tomorrow a bunch of queries will be prepped to mail, and over the next few days I’ll be getting languishing stories in the mail as well. On the next flight, because I’ll have more time, I’m going to do some brainstorming on AETW, so I can get back to work on that.

On top of everything, I’m so tired. Turns out neither Sarah nor I slept well last night; too bad we didn’t coordinate to get up and hang out, rather than toss and turn.

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On the plane home. Tired, hot. Want to be home. My layover in Chicago was brief—I went to the bathroom, then walked briskly to my gate to discover we were boarding. The exercise was good, but I kinda wanted a hot dog. Peckish now.

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Ate snack. Disappointing food, but feeling less peckish. Apparently unable to type in complete sentences at present. Took some notes on AETW, but still awfully tired. Miss Ken. Miss Sarah.

Had a brief moment of panic that I don’t have a house key and Cat will be at band. But then I remembered that Ken’s mom, who’s picking me up at the airport, has a key. Phew.

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Home now. Definitely exhausted. Only the prospect of food is keeping me going. I’m having a glass of wine whilst waiting for pasta to cook. I love Ken beyond words, but the man is incapable of throwing mouldy food out of the fridge. I can’t even have tea tomorrow until I go shopping, because there’s no milk or half-and-half.

The cats are adoring me beyond belief, unsurprisingly. I missed my furry urchins, so desperately.

I came home to not one, but two novel rejections. But Tor would like to see something else from me, which is a huge step in the right direction. Alas, I don’t think I have anything right for them just yet. AETW could be, possibly, but I don’t want to send them a partial until at least the first draft is done. I don’t disagree with Silhouette’s comments about Blackwood House (although I’m mildly confused as to why the letter is on Steeple Hill stationary)—I think the story will be better served as a longer, more complex book.