Love

                        Words fail.

missing hands on

 

 Imiss making. Everything is packed away, boxed, and closeted. Mostly I miss it because the immediate task at hand is unmaking. Taking apart my life and Frankensteining into an as-yet unimagined new design, like one of those little plastic number puzzles where you slide the numbers around to make order.

Going through piles of stuff and not being moved to save it from the trash bag is giving me soul callouses.

I hate interior decorating. For the first time in memory, I have to decide what goes where and I'm spending way too much time staring inwardly at a blank canvas. There is no spatial imagination.

 It's going to be a long winter.

Addendum!   Page of Pentacles. It's time to hit the KDP books. 

Nuts & bolts time. Feng Shui, anyone?

The sweetest chaos

 New year, new adventures.

Soon, this will be my main place. The best room in the house with all the light. Half of what's here now will be gone to make way for a bed. I have SO much extraneous stuff there have been zero pangs around shoving things into black plastic garbage bags. 

We are shifting our comfort zones to circle the wagons and welcome Jake, Missy & Charlie here while they hunt for a place of their own which, I'm glad they discovered, is not something to do under any kind of rush.

There's nothing like company coming to make me dig in and try to undo the years of sloth I've permitted.  We are still a few steps above Gray Gardens.  Long put-off renovations are underway. A 15-yard dumpster will be plopped in the driveway sometime next week. I think we should have gotten a bigger one. 

And to add to the circus, the little one was rescued by the big one from the airport runway. Too small to tell if it's male or female, it's just Kitteh for the time being. Don't tell the others!

It will be something to have him around full time, if only for a few months,

 

on the Eve

I love watching it cycle through the color phases. Made it very hard to choose a representative picture, but it's been a kind of blue Christmas. They all are, lo these many years.

But I'm mindful that it's a kids' holiday at its best.

Last year I consolidated all my ornaments down to one sturdy box about a foot square. I also trashed all the decrepit glass balls and half-failed strings of lights.

Colin found strings of led lights that run on just a few batteries that would last forever if I could locate the controls.

Charlie has an eye for spacing out the pretties for good coverage.

Young Jedi in training with what appears to be the ghost of his grandfather looking on. Really, a blurry shot of his uncle, Colin.

So much of Christmas is about nostalgia. We all have our own perspectives on the same moment. My sisters both look like they would have been better off sleeping in. I was already deep into chapter one of "King of the Wind" by Marguerite Henry. I still have it but it's in rough shape.

And my all-time favorite Christmas memory was finding a plastic turtle with a diamond ring tied around its neck with a little piece of ribbon in the bottom of my Christmas stocking. Not understanding the significance until he put it on my finger and asked me for forever. Much later that same morning we told my parents. Somehow we look like we had already seen deep into the future and found it to be as good as it gets.

Scribblers blues

 A weeklong struggle to come up with what  self-published marketers call a "reader magnet" ended in a stalemate. 

testing solar Christmas lights...today

An RM is a freebie designed to get readers to sign up on your email list which hopefully will lead to some of them actually buying your books. I am not playing the game well.

Oh, I strapped up and went after the words alright. Got down a 5K kernel that turned out to be the many roomed ground floor of the next volume of Prophets Tango. No way any of it is throwaway. I just can't work like that. 

What is going to happen is like the steel spine of one of the more formidable modern rollercoasters; beginning, the myriad middle twists and rolls, to the kind of end where the riders get off and toss back a cold one as they run to line up for another ride. 

How it will happen?  Story will run riot round that framework organically. I'm letting Life take my players through the paces of change as wild as Kudzu;  growth, bloom, wither, die and be reborn.

 

Our five dollar Charlie Brown balsam fir! Way to wait, House Lacativa