It’s a gloomy Pacific Northwest autumn morning, which suits me perfectly right down to the ground. The rain has been wonderful, the wind amusing; Boxnoggin loses his tiny little mind when invisible air-fingers are touching his hind end, and while I can’t blame him–it must be disconcerting–it doesn’t stop the whole thing from being hilarious. Miss B, of course, is unbothered by anything and everything except dinner being even a fraction of a minute late.
It’s the close of the witch’s year. We’re coming up on two years’ worth of pandemic, too, though the vaccine mandates seem to be making a bit of a dent. It’s about bloody time. If only we’d had adults (instead of fascist toddlers) in charge initially, we might have already been done with all this. My nerves are bare wires, despite all the attempts to re-wrap them.
But my favourite holiday is almost, almost here. Candy has been stored–we won’t hand it out, of course, trick or treaters will have to wait since the dogs go mad every time the doorbell rings and there’s the little matter of plague. Instead, it’ll go in a big bowl on the table, and we’ll have sugar for days.
Such are the tiny joys I’m looking forward to.
Work yesterday was interrupted by a series of minor catastrophes, so I got barely 700 words in and was quite vexed. I couldn’t even tell if they were good words, and by the end of my working day I was hangry enough to snarl. I did not, though it was a near thing, and I couldn’t go back after dinner for another session, alas.
Ah well. Today is another day, the dogs need another walk, and there’s another round of restless rain sweeping the roof. I’ll see if yesterday’s work was any good once the coffee soaks in, and I should shoehorn in a run for my weary corpse.
Everyone I know is in some manner of doldrums. Two years of All This, even with slight and fitful progress by getting semi-reasonable people back in charge–though they seem to be more interested in caving to authoritarian billionaires than doing the jobs the rest of us hired them for–is enough to dent anyone’s harmony.
I’m turning off the news today, and only glancing briefly at social stuff. I can’t take even one more goddamn thing, and I want some more lead work of Hell’s Acre before November hits and with it the drop-dead date for revisions on The Black God’s Heart, not to mention a couple other projects needing some serious attention before the end of the formal year. Oh, and Cotton Crossing is still $2.99 across ebook retailers until October 31. I’ve enjoyed running that promotion and may have to dream up a different one for November.
Miss B is napping near the door, ready for the slightest twitch on my part–it will, after all, mean walkies are closer to happening. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as excited for anything as her and Boxnoggin are for their daily ramble, but I can at least witness their joy. It’s one of the things getting me through, lately.
We’re all hanging in, all doing the best we can. Good for us–and I don’t mean that sarcastically, either. I’m truly and honestly amazed by the amount of resilience we’ve all displayed. Ideally we would never have had to call upon it…but it’s worthy of a bit of pat-on-the-back just the same.
Good job, everyone. Let’s keep going. The only way out is through, and all that…