Dear heaven, it really is the holidays, isn’t it? Parties here, there, and everywhere: last night, tonight, tomorrow. No wonder I can’t get anything done. I keep having to bake, and buy things, wrap things, ship things, acquire more things to eat both to take to various parties, and so there will be things to eat on Saturday when everything is closed. And so on and so forth.
My university’s library is closed, which is another reason I can’t get anything done. I need books to look up things that need to be changed/corrected in an essay that’s been accepted; the necessary information is not available online. I could, of course, be working on that overdue revise-and-resubmit, only I have it firmly fixed in my mind that I have to do the corrections first. Furthermore, the R&R is about Chaucer, and after reading [refuse to think of number] student essays on Chaucer [refuse to think about quality, as quantity is bad enough], I really don’t want to have anything to do with another essay on Chaucer, even if it’s my own.
My sense of this time of year, clearly, is still strongly shaped by my single years, in which it seemed I rarely got invited to anything. I hunkered down with my cat and got a lot of work done, and I managed to plan and get the books I needed (as well as some fun reading) in advance of any library closings. Or maybe the library was open more hours, before the current budget crunch. In those days, any party that did come up was a delightful chance (even for an introvert) to interact with live! human! beings! Now I would welcome a little peace and quiet. Oh well. I suppose the editors are dealing with their own holiday chaos, not refreshing their e-mail every ten minutes to see if I’ve submitted my work yet.