I’ve got another three measures of left hand to work out, but I’m done. I feel like I’m going to barf. I remember that saying that everyone attributes to nine different people that runs, “Writing a novel is like walking from Vladivostok to Paris on your knees. You get to Paris where you are welcomed with a parade, enjoy a fabulous dinner and party with the most wonderful food and guests, champagne at midnight … and you wake up the next morning in Vladivostok on your knees.”
I just feel like I’m in Paris with bloody knees.
And I have to get all this into Lilypond. And then start shedding parts of it that are a slight stretch. Hell, I’m not even in Paris yet. I’m in Gdansk. With bloody knees.
Update: Three measures done. Dinner, wine, then Lilypond. *rubs Bacitracin on knees*
Further updates: DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE. Knees beginning to heal. Still not in Paris, damn it.
