I've been feeling very floppy today. Not this kind of flopping:
or this kind:
but more the kind where I don't quite know what to do with myself. I've (hopefully) sent the final draft of the YA to Agent E, and I haven't started the next book yet. Starting a new project takes a lot of stewage, where you hang out and stew about parts of the the next book, suss out characters and plots and generally pick up ideas, examine them and see if they are going to work. This is frustrating, but necessary work, and I can't write a word until things have gelled for awhile. So far, all I have are some vague ideas. And a title.
Also, all of the cool kids are going to SCBWI in LA, the big, fat writer's conference that starts tomorrow. I'm staying home. That's me, the ant all the way on the left who ISN'T going to the party:
As DH observed, when he found me wandering aimlessly through the house - I don't do nothing very well.
On this date: In 1975, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.
Thanks to flickrers: stuckincustoms, damiel and tarotastic.