I saw the phrase 'third winter' on a web post as one of the eleven Canadian seasons. (Its right before 'mud season'.) We are in it right now. There is in people a state of suspended anticipation for warm sun and green leaves. It is so cruelly close and yet it feels far away.
The second book is in the same kind of state. I put out a request for quotes on developmental and copy edits on Reedsy and got a couple back. No way its going to be done for June 30, which was my preferred deadline. And no way for me to hurry it along. And the longer it goes, the more I dislike what I have written. I'll pick an editor soon and then let them have at it. Then we'll see I guess.
Here's a paragraph from a new story:
She remembered feeling as if she had been opened like a flower, or crumbled like dry soil, or flooded like a river over its banks. It was him, in her heart, her mind, her soul. He, the Believer, needed her. He loved her. He was in pain. So much pain. He demanded she submit to him, help him carry his awful burden, and she did. She rushed out of the house to get to him, but she must have tripped on her long dress. She fell and hit her head hard on the corner of her small kitchen table. When she woke they were gone. She was weak and dizzy. Her face was covered in blood. She remembered crawling to her bed and sleeping. She rose only to sip water from a jug. She ached for him but she couldn’t move. She tried once. Staggered out the door and down the road until she threw up. She woke up in her bed. She could not remember how she got there.
Some things I (re) learned this week:
Free weights are much harder than machines
Chiropractors are worth the money
Crime and mystery stories can almost write themselves
Its good to see baseball again
Scott Adams is a genius (dilbert.com)
Hope to see you here next week!