It's been a rough day. The writing went slowly. I knocked five hundred words off my quota for the day or else I'll be here until tomorrow. I am rapidly growing tired of monsieurs Lermontov (although this is the writer I have described as "dickish and childish" when at a loss for words, so I don't suppose my lost love is surprising) and Paustovsky (this is the second time I'm writing my chapter about him, so, once again, my lost love is not surprising). I have fifty pages but no introduction. I just realized that I forgot to discuss one of the poems included in the play. There's one section that my advisor has told me to include but in which I don't know what to say. I feel like I've used the words "Aesopian," "figurative," and "metaphorical" a gazillion times too many. My September defense is being to look unrealistic, which isn't all bad. I'd rather have my family out here in June.
In other words, life is looking pretty bleak at the moment. Bleak in a cushy sort of way but still bleak.
At least I'm taking an editing course starting next week. Ptichka also brought home dessert: opera cake from the good French bakery down the street (we have two within five minutes' walk and one of them is the not-so-good French bakery down the street). And this has yet to fail me. I at least snigger when I read it. It works best if you act out the dialogue in your head, complete with Tom Cruises' crazy inflection.
Have a good weekend everybody! I'll be writing and writing and then writing some more.
There's nothing below the fold.