Almost made it through this thing called the holidays but not without a little sickness here, a little sickness there, stress, overindulgence, family arguments, and a good case of cabin fever. I’d love to pass through it all and find myself firmly in March, but unless I’m in a drunken stupor, that ain’t about to happen. So, cold, boring, dry, itchy-skinned January and February it is. This is when it’s nice to be a writer. Not sure what the other folk do, but for me it’s wonderful to have a place of escape. I’ll either edit the crappola out of the book I wrote this summer or write a completely new one. Best to stick with the edits though. Best in all ways.
I have an essay coming out in January. That’s exiting. Nice to be able to show the world that I do more than just sit around and talk about writing. I do have product. It does exist. And then there are stories out there on sub. Will be interesting to see what happens with those.
I always figure time is a lamb that we must not rope. It moves of its own free will, and we must let it. Time is a gift, a letter, a hope. We cannot rush these things, though part of me clutches the lasso. All in good time. I can wait.
Happy New Year to each and all!