I went and got groceries today; too much, really–I came home exhausted and haven’t been good for much since. The store is about 3/4 of a mile away; I can usually manage a backpack full, but this added a couple of bags for a total of 30-40 pounds. Although, this time I remembered what the walk home had been like, and I took the bus home instead. Yay me and the good decision making.

Anyway, before I left, I made up a basic punch list for the book, and realized unhappily that I really do need to keep pumping out the original. (I’d be perkier about this, but see title, above.) I go through cycles of avoidance–I generally fall behind on the transcription, because the actual manuscript usually goes where I do (a major benefit of the old-fashioned longhand method). But sometimes the catch-up is a cover for dawdling on the rest of the story.

I think worrying about the more police-procedural part is getting in my way. I should once again go get a doughnut (heh) and just let Bun-Bun and Sandy go after Damascus in peace. They know what they’re doing; and if I catch them being stupid at it later, well, all right then. Besides, isn’t catching that sort of stuff what readers are for, anyway?

Moreover, most of the books I’ve selected aren’t all that informative–except to tell me that aside from the poetically fictive genius of the protagonists, the cop shows (and the other procedurals) have it pretty much dead on target (oh swifties just stop)–the real guys really do it more or less the way they do it on TV.

The noteworthy thing about them is largely the wide spread of the writing skill and style. I was miserably unhappy to find that the tantalizingly titled Postmortem is actually a sociologist blethering depressingly about cultural mumbawhutsis and avoidance hrmah-Kübler-Ross-yevm and objectification jurisdiction coughcoughgotta-kill-a-chihuahua-now so it can be vutzikeckkeck coronary artery disease. Just like most of us (and don’t ask the man; please; if you do, let me know so I can just leave) I absolutely refuse to envision the possibility of a time of no me, and have given myself permission to not think of it, other than taking my statin and blood pressure meds like a good girl.

On the other hand, Working Vice is the sort of the surely-I-can-get-published thing full of “first this happened; then this happened; then it got boring; and then this happened too,” with enough harshly unambiguous comma splices for a grammatical rope reaching halfway down the Eastern Seaboard.  (I’m not linking, because I don’t want to hurt the WV writers’ feelings, and refuse to propagate the intelle-dreck of the other.)

On the other hand, Hypnocop is engaging and useful. It’s written by a nice smart cop who tells me stuff I didn’t know, and I actually like him. But “he’s” on my shelf in Widener, not on my coffee table.

So I’m depressed-ish. But I’m tired, so I’ll just go to bed.