My muses are gone - I guess they are entitled to some holidays. I don't want to get in trouble with the Union of Writers' Muses, after all.
But in all seriousness - the part of my brain that cooks up scenes and plots and characters is 100% engaged in the House Project. Plotting the move, what to buy, when to get it delivered, and what work to do first.
The little Moleskine cahiers I use to plot I'm currently using to keep track of dates and mutual dependencies. A house move is really a logic test, a piece of project management, and since my partner's useless at that kind of thinking, I'm doing it pretty much all. Doesn't mean I'm not presenting the plan to him so he can nod and feel included in the planning, but the gritty work seems to be largely on my shoulders.
Which is cool, that way at least I can moderately relax about things. If any Bond villain had my approach to stuff - to get it done right, I have to supervise closely or do it myself - the James Bond series would have ended after the first book because I would have killed James Bond dead. Maybe I should apply for a villain role. Hmmm, jackboots.
Been invited to contribute to a new m/m review blog, which might be a good outlet for my non-historical reading. For the moment I gave them my stories for reviews.
That said, on the way into London this morning, I had vivid images from "Iron Cross". Richard is so polite when he walks into my thoughts. I had this distinct feeling of "I really don't want to disturb you, but it seems you are a little idle, so I'm taking this opportunity" feeling from him. David is very different from that, he'd just demand my attention, NOW.
Those images can feel like memories, also because it's hard to change them. I can put my mind of idle and ask them "what are you doing next?" and sometimes they just tell me - there's that "voice" thing. Then there's the "film", which I struggle to sustain for longer than a few minutes. Scenes that are already "fixed" are like memories. Sometimes, characters talking about their plans have a decided "documentary" feel about them, or they are like actors in full gear and make-up and quite reasonably talking, "out of character" while also as actors already semi-playing that part. It's a little strange at times.
But how much do I love Richard. I never meant for him to rub shoulders with bastards like Erich Koch or have an uneasy underling-superior relationship with Albert Speer. (Now I want to read Speer's biography to get him right for those two scenes I'll likely have to write).
When I get home from work, I'll have to do a little more clean-up, since we already have viewings for the flat. Our landlord's not losing even one minute. We only cancelled the flat on Thursday!
(Note: No news from Sock Boy... he might have decided to stay out of my hair since I'm leaving. Not that I'm not rubbing that in every day. I do have a countdown LARGE AND VISIBLE on my desk, after all, and am generally perversely upbeat for all the work we're doing. I don't care - rats and sinking ships, I guess).