There’s a high thin haze today, hopefully blunting some of the heat; this morning’s sunrise was blood-colored. I think there’s some wildfire smoke high up, leaping over us instead of descending to clog as it did last year–for which I am devoutly grateful, because the suffocating fire-reek was a hideous time. Our sprinklers are finally working again too (don’t ask) so the garden is in much better shape. Even the tomatoes are happy.
And why did I see the sunrise, you might ask? Because unlike me, the dogs are morning people. They simply couldn’t allow me to stay abed any longer, not when there were fun things to do and naps to take in other areas of the house. Also, last night got a bit too warm for comfortable sleeping since the house was closed up, and Miss B didn’t like that at all.
So I was poked and prodded from slumber, and hopefully I’ll be able to ingest enough caffeine to keep my temper sweet. Or sweet-ish, as the case may be.
I am not quite as snarling as I was last month, or even as peeved as I was yesterday.1 Another hard run this morning wrung a fair amount of sweat and stress chemicals free, so that’s good. The weather folk say Friday will bring a little rain, and that’s even better. I don’t feel quite right when the moss between my toes dries out; the Pacific Northwest is not supposed to be this arid.
Apparently mentioning werewolves yesterday made Cold North sit up and take notice, because that book informed me it was quite done marinating and would like a revision, please and thank you. I can’t find a trio of premade covers for the projected trilogy, but I keep looking–if a trad publisher won’t get interested in Tolkien Viking Werewolves2, I’ll just have to bring it out myself, which will stretch the timeline a bit but that’s life. One thing I will not do is let this story languish untold.
Some projects, I don’t mind if they stay trapped on my hard drive forever. Others want to go out into the world as a matter of course, and who am I to gainsay them?
It will mean a lot of thankless effort, and the first book’s insistence on revision now is already playing havoc with other scheduling. But a surplus of work is where I’m happiest, and if I put my head down and focus on the stories I won’t have to brood upon the state of the world, which is a large, deep mercy. I feel guilty for being unable to handle even looking at the news, but my resilience has reached a stumbling-block after the last four-five years.
I’ve had all I can stand, as Popeye says, and I can’t stands no more.
The roses have all recovered from their move, and most are even blooming. Even the ketchup-and-mustard seems quite happy in its new home. One of the blueberries appears to have given up the ghost, but I’m going to give it another winter to make absolutely certain before I decide what to do with its corpse. The terrible heat does seem to have made a dent in the slug and snail population, which means my hostas are doing much better than I had any right to expect, too.
These are the things I’m concentrating on, because I can’t bear to look beyond my garden gate at the moment. It feels like falling down on my responsibilities, but exactly nobody and nothing will be served by fretting myself dry about systemic failure driven by the greed of a few rich bastards and the foot-dragging cowardice of those elected to stop them.
And with that cheerful thought, I’m off to steep a cuppa (coffee might vibrate me right into another dimension, which might be a blessing but I HAVE DEADLINES) and return to the world of Solveig and her shieldmaid. It’s actually not a bad little story, which means I’m right in the phase I need to be with it. Don’t worry, I’ll start hating it around the copyedits stage.
At least that remains the same. Some things are stable and constant, even during *gestures wildly* all this.
Stay safe out there, beloveds. I’m trying to hope, though it’s difficult; whether I’m hopeless or not, though, the line still has to be held.
That stays constant too.