I haven't posted, because I haven't done much of anything that would interest anyone. I'm pretty much at an equilibrium point in my home life. I still alternate between a dull ache of missing my friends and just plain happiness at being home. I am still terrified at the thought of actually beginning to write my history project. I still read and think a lot, but still mostly inside my own head.

One thing is different. I'm starting to feel restless. Before, I was just missing my friends. Now I'm missing my classes. I had doubted at the end of last summer that I would ever get the excitement for "school" work back. Now I feel it. There are so many things that I want to learn. I can teach many of them to myself, but I don't know where to start on the rest. I want classes and papers and new thought.

But my body still isn't ready. After my stress last week coming into the deadline for my annotated bibliography (which was "superb," says Dr. Snyder!), coupled with raising the intensity on my workouts, I guess my immune system was a bit lowered. I caught another slight cold. With the help of echinacea, however, it is already gone. It just goes to show how fragile I still am. I guess it's good that I have five and a half more months at home.

We had an extra choir practice this morning, for two hours. It wasn't like a Mr. Johnson Chorale practice, because our choir director does not expect too much out of us. So long as we have our parts, we're good. Usually, I get the alto part the first time through. Then we sing it over and over and over and over again to make sure everyone has it. I was pleased to see that at least we are now learning a piece by Handel; our choir music is usually very simple.

Thought: Is it a good thing to find oneself subconsciously editing another fiction writer's published work? Why does something feel more sacrosanct just because it is published?  ¶ 2:03 PM