A whopping 46 words yesterday, the first day of my work year. Okay, so I did a little organization and a little research and a little existential musing, which does take time.

I swear, one needs to look no further than the mirror to find all the character development needed to write any kind of fiction. Yesterday, I grumped around because -- and don't laugh, you know you all have these idiocies yourselves, or at least I comfort myself with thinking that you do -- because my dishtowel basket in the kitchen keeps getting things put in it that are not dishtowels.

"Ah, maybe she's a neatnik."

No. I'm a convenience-nik. I want to grab a dishtowel entirely unimpeded by chocolate bars or avocados or someone's 7-11 receipt. If something spills, I want there to be NO barrier to my hand grabbing a clean towel to mop up. All this is very boring. But when I'm stalking around fuming, and no one has any idea why, and I'm refusing to say why, because that would sound silly, well, the dialogue that ensues INSTEAD is very interesting.

And good kind Marsh turns into snarly incomprehensible Marsh, which is probably where Stevenson got the idea in the first place.

(P.S. I got better.)