It’s not a monsoon. It’s steady, penetrating sheets of small drops, coming in waves, tiptapping the roof. It’s a warm rain, as things go. Not jungle-warm, but it’s not coating everything with ice and it has no particles of sleet in its many beating hearts. Mud’s collecting in every corner, grass is a sludge with a thin green hat, your shoes sink in, the cedars are bathing like naiads.
Down in the mud, the crocuses bloom. Snowdrops, too. The hyacinths are coming up, and the daffodils are raising green spears. I saw the crocuses yesterday, and a wave of hot, acid relief went through me right at the solar plexus. I’ve never been a springtime person–winter is when I’m most productive, especially in a damp, temperate clime. It’s a good thing we only have ice and snow here every once in a while. It kills off the slug overstock and keeps some of the other pestiferous populations down, but it’s not my favourite.
In a little bit, I have a long run. In the rain. I won’t be taking Miss B–she’s getting older, and this distance isn’t for her. She will no doubt be pissy with me for the rest of the day, until I give her some trick training to exhaust her doggy brain. Her separation anxiety is intense, even when someone else is home while I’m not. I’m not sure why, it’s not like she’s ever left alone for long, and there’s the cats and Odd Trundles to herd as well, but every time I leave, the kids tell me she mopes. SO MUCH MOPING.
There’s wordcount to chip free today, but Afterwar is in that funny fallow phase right before it breaks free and I race for the end. I can feel it gathering itself, bubbling and boiling under a cauldron lid, but whenever I go to peek, it rattles warningly. This particular book has been an education in submission to the process, yet again. I just keep repeating, it’s my job to show up, don’t worry about the rest.
Some days I even believe it. Most days, though, my entire body is a mass of exposed nerve-wires. I’m also in the Slough of Despond on the other two projects: Nobody will like it. The publisher will hate it. They’ll decide you’re not worth publishing. You’ll starve to death, your kids will starve, the sun will go out and everyone will hate you hate you hate you. That’s the big problem with juggling multiple books; when they all hit that moment of paralyzing doubt, it’s exponentially worse for each project added to the pile.
Ritual and habit are going to get me through this, just like they’ve gotten me through *mumblemumble* other books. It’s just a little painful right now.
Time to run.