11pm: I decided I didn't have the energy to work on my trashy novel tonight. Before that I had a good evening: made carrot cake, investigated the tax consequences of buying a house (wow, it's enough to actually offset the property taxes!), read part of a book about emigrating from the United States (Canada? No, not seriously considering it, but the idea does every so often come up). My next plan was to curl up in my big armchair with Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver, read for an hour or so, then go to bed.
And yet I gave my husband a kiss and said, "I'll be out in a bit," as I headed toward the room that holds my writing desk. I sat down and took out my laptop. I'm procrastinating a little now, writing this, but I think I'll still get my 500 words in spite of myself. Yesterday I didn't intend to go to the gym, either, and yet half an hour later there I was upping the stack from 50 to 70 pounds while listening to an actor with a pretentious English accent read The English Assassin on my headphones.
And now I'm finishing up this entry, and now I'm off to the manuscript...my good intentions are sneaking up on me.
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