Rain, rain, go away
Come again another day
Surprise!
It’s raining in North Texas—as it has done almost every day for weeks. Most
people are complaining, and rightly so—we may grow webbed feet (anyone remember
the story from Owen Wister’s The Virginian? IF not, the book is worth
exploring or revisiting, origin of the myth of the American West, and all that.
But I digress.) The Metroplex is in serious danger of flooding if a lot more
rain falls on already-saturated ground. And in Frisco, where one branch of my
family lives, they have or had loud, frequent lightning. Since the house was
hit last week, killing most of the
televisions, my daughter-in-law reports she is no longer a fan.
But
unlike everyone else, I have thoroughly enjoyed this morning. The rain has been
steady but gentle, the sky dark as night, and the thunder softly rolling (not
at all how Sophie interprets it—at one point she was trapped between the twin
evils of thunder outside and the vacuum cleaner inside). I have been at my desk
all morning, happily keeping busy[JA1] .
Actually
what I’ve been doing is moodling. Thanks to mystery writer Joanne Giudoccio’s
blog where Catherine Castle taught me this new word and concept. In Castle’s
words, “The imagination needs moodling—long, inefficient happy idling, dawdling
and puttering.” Another author suggests, “What you write today is the result of
some span of idling yesterday, some fairly long period of protection from
talking and busyness.” Castle advises, “Give yourself permission to daydream
and reflect without too many expectations. And don’t be disappointed if a spark
or epiphany doesn’t emerge quickly.”
To the
immediate right of my desk is a large window that looks out on part of our
small back yard, including the deck with its profusion of flowers. So that’s
what I’ve been doing—gazing out the window a lot and letting my mind wander.
For days. It’s gotten to the point that my conscience is bothering me, because
I know I’m avoiding my work-in-progress, a mystery, and hoping inspiration will
suddenly strike—and that I’ll recognize it. It’s not all gazing out the window,
and some of what has occupied me can legitimately be called work. Answering
emails, posting about the newly reprinted historical novels, taking care of
such business as a dental appointment and figuring out how to renew my
handicapped parking tag. All that is done with some frustration—I cannot crack
the secret of getting an identification card once you don’t have an active
driver’s license. Then someone involved me in a quest for the name of a
novelist from the 1970s, so I’ve spent time wracking my brain, fruitlessly.
There’s a must-write column due this week, so I have to get to that.
Still,
what I’m doing is putting “busy work” between me and the novel. I told myself
that I would get back to it this week, but things are not looking good. This
morning, my most productive time is almost gone; tomorrow I’m going on a big
grocery expedition, I think, the Lord willing and the heavens don’t open again.
Maybe Wednesday?
It was
a kind of stare-out-the-window weekend too. The only excitement I can report is
a trip to the new restaurant, The Rim, at Waterside. Carol and I went because
we have never found better fried chicken than what Keith Hix produced at his
Buttons location. We were crushed when Buttons closed and overjoyed when he and
investors opened The Rim. The fried chicken was as excellent as ever, so hot
you had to poke steam vents in it and let it cool; the potatoes, smashed not
mashed, were maybe the best I’ve eaten (Jordan, the queen of mashed potatoes in
our house, is offended that I even thought that). The Rim is not an upscale,
white-tablecloth kind of place. Whoever designed it was striving for retro—and
almost made it. But it’s sure worth a trip to Waterside. I came home with two
drumsticks for my lunch but lost one to Jordan the minute I hit the door.
Ho
hum—lunch and then a nap and more moodling. Christian is fixing dinner
tonight—a roast with all the veggies.
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