It’s a dark morning, a nice thick cloud layer shielding us. The rain has brought greening at the bottom of summer-yellowed grass and the trees are lifting their arms again, turgor pressure rising. Miss B is philosophical–her coat is wash and wear, and she’s a fan of chilly temperatures.
Boxnoggin, however, is from the South, and this cold, damp bullshit is not at all to his liking. Plus, he’s got a lovely slick coat that doesn’t bulk up like B’s. Consequently, he goes out in the rain and his first act is to crane his head over his shoulder and look at me mournfully. Clearly I am a vengeful goddess who is making water fall from the sky for the express purpose of inconveniencing his four-legged self.
B’s just happy summer is over. She gets warm, even with the air trapped in her coat.
As for me, I am delighted with the rain. Already my productivity’s spiked; 4k on Damage yesterday alone. I’m in the space where I hate the book, I loathe it, nobody’s going to want to read it, and we’ll all starve to death because I’m a terrible writer.
So, just as usual, then. I wish I could escape that terrible feeling for at least one book, but it hasn’t happened yet after fifty-plus, so it’s probably just one of those things. Like death, taxes, and the stupidity of rich white men.
This morning requires some walking in the rain. I know exactly what happens next, but there’s two gory combat scenes I need to block out, and since the injury running is out of the question for a while. Fortunately I can still walk with only moderate pain, and I need to be moving.
Also fortunately, I can swing the sledgehammer. I sense a lot of that in my future.
And now, the shilling of my wares done, I need to get a jacket on and get the dogs out the door for walkies. At least when it’s raining Boxnoggin keeps up a brisk pace, wanting to get back to shelter as soon as possible. I don’t blame him, especially since it’s good exercise.
But first, there’s coffee to be absorbed while I blink frowstily at yesterday’s work, trimming just a few words and getting back into the rhythm. It may be a terrible book, but it will not be a terrible unfinished book. One can work with a whole corpse, after all, much better than one can work with fragments.
Happy Tuesday, my dears.