Tornado Time
The wind is up here in Seattle, and I am typing this in perfectly nice hotel room on the sixth floor. I love this city and I love this hotel. Saint City is loosely modeled on a Seattle that existed about a decade ago in my dreams and shotgun-adrenaline experiences, with little bits of Cheyenne, London, and Portland thrown in. Funny how the omnivorous creative serves up bits of these dishes over and over again.
An urban landscape that is loosely based in face is an odd thing, because the characters are perfectly sure of where and who they are, but the writer is always trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Which is nothing new to any writer worth his or her salt.
The wind is absolutely whipping against the windows. We have a corner room, so there is a song of air moving by. It’s one of the more perfect and comforting sounds in the world, right next to a crackling fire and the silent hiss of snowfall. (I realize these things may only be comfortable when one is warm and snug inside, with a cuppa hot tea and a good book. Moderation is the key to all, as Aurelius pointed out in a perfectly lovely bon mot that has rung through the world since.)
This morning it was coffee and a bagel in the University Bookstore (Duane wasn’t upstairs, I don’t think. In any case, I am under strict orders to leave bookstores alone for a while) and some shopping. It’s nice to amble along, feeding the Muse with little snippets of things, and feel no particular pressure. I needed this.
Tonight I put my sister on a plane for Costa Rica. She’s already nervous as a wet cat about going, which isn’t helped by her hangover–a relic of last night’s going-away party. We’re going to hit some Indian food this afternoon, which will no doubt give her uneasy dreams on her red-eye flight. But she’s the seasoned world traveler, so her nerves are normal, at least.
I have not written a lick since this weekend. Fear not–I’m still clipping along at a good pace, mostly inside my head as I put together little bits of plot. Last night I was staring off into the distance when a perfectly good plot point made itself clear to me, one I’m going to have to fiddle about with the third Valentine book during copyediting to pull off right. (I’m just glad we didn’t get to page proofs before it occurred to me. Damn Muse.)
Anyway, I hope your week is as restful as mine, dear Reader. I just may stay here until Saturday after all. One doesn’t often have an opportunity for such peace.
Related posts:
