The weather in North Texas remains wonderful--downright cool when I poked my head out for the paper this morning and plesant all day, with a breeze. I haven't heard my air conditioner kick on, and with the windows open, the house feels much fresher. Hard to explain the difference, but it's there. Still on a beautiful day, much of the news is bad. As more and more reports come in about the damage from Hurricane Ike, it's hard to take in the magnitude of the destruction and of the recovery that will take at least a year. Colin and his family say they're doing fine, coping from day to day and hoping for power in the next few days. I know if the family did a heave-to, rented a U-Haul, took gas, ice, and a larger generator down there, the power would come on as we drove in the driveway. So we wait . . . and I worry, though three-year-old Morgan said tonight, "We're fine, Juju." And then there's the financial news from Wall Street. Admittedly, I don't understand the country's finances--I don't understand where a country with the horrendous debt we have gets the money for such massive bail-outs. And Senator McCain has admitted that he hasn't paid much attention to the economy. Between that and Governor Palin, I wish someone could tell me why he's running so strongly. I read one article today suggesting it's Palin's designer eyeglasses--is that how dumb this country has become?
A disturbing phone message tonight from the husband of a high school friend. When we finally connected by phone tonight, I was right--he was not a bearer of good tidings. Bernice died Thursday, and Alan was uncertain who to call, kept forgetting, but said today he was looking at wedding pictures and thought of course he must call me. I knew Bernice had breast cancer for four years but we only kept in touch at Christmas, and I didn't realize it had gotten critical. Makes me sad on lots of fronts, but it also calls back good memories and funny ones--Alan and I talked about some of those memories and then I had an email from their daughter--I replied with thanks and a recounting of a teen-age escapade that got us in trouble. I guess you think people from your young years will always be there, and of course that's not true. But Bernice is one of the major memories of my high school years in Chicago and the years after when we crossed paths occasionally. She was straightforward, adventuresome, and always fun.
And then there's the mystery of writing mysteries. I've thought long and hard about this. I read several mystery-related blogs and listservs and it has struck me that I may simply not be devoted enough. I read a blog of advice to newcomers to publishing (I don't consider myself one but I can always learn and the game changes constantly) where the blogger maintains about twelve internet "billboards" as he calls them--Twitter, mySpace, Facebook, several personal blogs, etc. When does he have time to do anything but tend to those? Then the listserv about seeking an agent makes the querying process sound intense and full-time. When to these people--mostly women--write? I realize I love writing, but I have a lot of other things in my life--family, friends, cooking, my job, reading books I enjoy, reading recipe magazines, doing my yoga. I'm not willing to give up all aspects of my life for my writing--and maybe that's what it takes in today's marketig-intensive world. But then I read other mystery-related blogs that talk about bad hair days or a fondness for picnics or some other everyday topic with which I can identify and I think, "Okay, maybe I can do both." Right now I can't decide whether to keep going through the second novel or turn some intense attention to querying and placing the first novel. Hah! As if I know how to do that. But I think that's where I'll turn my efforts tonight. It's a puzzlement.
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