The uncertain life of an indie author

 

Someone—dare I say a fan?—asked me today when Irene Deep in Texas Trouble would be published, and I gave my standard answer: I hope in April, but I can’t be sure. It occurred to me some readers of this blog, not in the publishing world, might be interested in a little lesson publishing.

In my long career—my first book was published in 1978 by Wm. Morrow and Co—I have been published by major New York publishers, university presses, small, independent publishers, and now I am self-published or was we prefer today indie published. Until not so many years ago, paying to publish your own book was the kiss of death in the publishing world. It meant your work was not good enough to interest a legitimate, commercial publisher. There were—and still are, I think—companies devoted to this trade. They would publish your book for a hefty fee, print say a thousand copies, store them in their warehouse, and sell you the copies you’d already paid to produce. It was called vanity publishing, for a reason.

Early in my mystery career, which only began some twelve years ago, I was published by a small press, and I was pretty happy with them. But as small publishers too often do, they went belly up, although I will say they did it with grace: they returned the rights to the five or six books I’d published with them and gave me rights to the covers they’d designed and which I liked a lot.

But after that, the next eleven or so books (I could figure out the exact number but won’t take the time) were indie published. That means after I finish the manuscript, I pay out of pocket for an editor, a designer, and a formatter. Could I do it without those professionals? Of course, but it would look amateurish, which is another kiss of death. I am fortunate that the same woman who designs my covers also formats the manuscripts for publication on Amazon, which is free—they get their cut out of books sold. Amazon is author-friendly, in that you can format and publish your own work, but the times I’ve done it, I’ve gotten it all wrong. So I use a woman I work with on other ongoing projects, and it’s a good working relationship.

If say, Penguin Books has your book under contract, they know exactly when they will publish it—usually at least a year, more often two after the contract is signed. They give you a deadline and you meet it. And six or so months before the pub date, they begin marketing.

As an indie publisher, nothing is that easy. I cannot predict exactly when a work will publish because I am dependent on other people’s schedules. When I have a manuscript as polished as I think I can make it, without overworking it, I send it to an editor. At the same time, I may send the designer enough ideas for her to work on a cover. How fast the editor works depends on her schedule and the workload on her desk. I guarantee no editor says, “Oh, here’s Judy’s manuscript. I’ll drop everything and get right to it.” When I get the mss. back from the editor, I have to go through each of her suggestions—that may take two days or two weeks—and re-submit it. Second edits are more easily dealt with, but you can hear the clock ticking.

When the editing process is done, I send it to the designer. There again, the time frame depends on her workload and schedule. Only when I get it back in final form and have proofread it for the umpteenth time, can we move ahead. For various reasons, I publish almost exclusively on Amazon these days, and I ask my designer to send it to them because she is better at it than I am. I am never sure how to submit it and specify an advanced date—in fact, I think if you publish an ebook, you can’t do that. So when you finally send it to Amazon is when you get your pub date—usually two or three days away. See why specifying a date is hard? And so is advanced marketing.

So you may ask why I don’t have an agent and a commercial publisher. The answer in large part has to do with age—interesting a reliable agent (remember, the relationship is almost like getting married) takes a long time, sometimes ten years. In my seventies, when I would have been looking for an agent, I didn’t feel I had that time. I had books to write, stories to tell, and I didn’t want to twiddle my thumbs while agent after agent worked through slush piles. (I’d played that game earlier in my career with little success.) Same is true of finding a publisher, even if you have an agent marketing your manuscript.

Then there’s the pressure of publishing with a big house. When I submitted my first mystery mss to an editor at Kensington, who happened to be an old friend, he wanted to scrap the first book and start with the second. I declined, because it was my book, and I had my own vision of how it should be. Beyond that, big houses have certain requirements—if  your sales drop too low, they drop you; they require a book a year or whatever. There are pressures, and in my retirement, I didn’t need that.

So here I am, happily indie publishing, not making a lot of money but finding readers who really like my books (my Amazon ratings are good even if my sales statistics are not), and I’m doing what I want. It’s a good life.

And this blog go way too long.

 

There is definitely a spot on the moon.

 

It’s been a day of small wrongs for me. Oh, it started out well enough, if a dental visit can ever be called well enough. As I said to the hygienist today, I like her a lot but I just don’t like what she does. She said I was a much better-behaved patient today, and we got through the session just fine. Trouble is when I’m nervous or uncomfortable, I like to chatter—in fact, I probably run my mouth way too much. But with someone working inside your mouth, you can’t do that. So I grin and bear it.

But when I got home and back to my desk, the day started to unravel. I was adding some recipes to the back of the book of the forthcoming Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. One of the recipes I wanted was already on my computer in the draft of the Helen Corbitt manuscript—the original Texas Caviar, with all its simplicity and not a marinated bean salad disguised. So I thought I’d just copy and paste from there. In the process I managed to erase the Texas caviar recipe and insert into the Corbitt draft not once but three times the recipes for Lobster Newburg and Gougeres, which belong in the Irene manuscript. Fortunately, I had the cloud backup for Texas caviar—and of course all would not have been lost, because it’s all over the internet—but still it was comforting to be able to replace it. I pulled all the intruders out of Corbitt and decided it was time for a nap.

Late this afternoon I tried to pay some bills. The landscape company that does our yard sends out a bill that shows the amount for the year—it’s hefty, but there is a way to pay just the monthly fee. In trying to do that, I clicked on the wrong button and paid for the entire year, which would be a blow to my monthly budget. They’re fast, those people at Discover—I called right away, was told there was no payment in the pipeline, got disconnected, called back, and it was in pending and beyond cancellation. They recommended I call the payee, which I did. He’s a friend and easy to work with—said in eighteen years he’s had to do one refund but he will research it and do it tomorrow.

I was still steaming over that when Jordan and a friend arrived with my Central Market order. First thing I unpacked was bananas, which I had not ordered. My thought was “How did Jordan add to my order?” But as I unpacked I realized I had gotten someone else’s groceries—a summer squash and a zucchini, a generous lemon-marinated salmon filet, some blackberries, a hefty bunch of boneless chicken breasts, Brussel sprouts, apples. A gift from the gods. I called Central Market, and they will deliver my groceries tomorrow. Meantime they told me to keep what I had—they would just throw it out if it came back to them. So I will send some into the house, keep the salmon filet for a guest tomorrow night and also make a casserole with the squash. Split the bananas between Jordan and me, and I had scrambled eggs, a banana, and a chocolate chip cookie for supper. Not too shabby.

Tonight I watched a Zoom panel on working with book bloggers—very informative and gave me some things to do tomorrow to get the new Irene on calendars. These panels are sponsored by various chapters of Sister in Crime and are a great, free gift to the mystery community. But they inevitably begin with way too much introduction, chapter business, etc. It was thirty minutes tonight. I cancelled the video so they wouldn’t know I wasn’t sitting spellbound at my desk and went off to make my supper. You’d think writers would know about capturing and holding people’s attention.

Which brings me to the book I’m reading—a cozy mystery by one of the leading names in the cozy community. In the past I have loved this series, eagerly read each new book. Now I’m finding the book overloaded with literary allusions and way too much description all of which slow down the action. I will read on because I’m told it’s one of that author’s best—but I am doubtful. Recently my mentor seemed to imply that my writing has matured. Do you suppose my reading taste has also matured? I think that would make me a really late bloomer.

Stay safe everyone. In North Texas, severe storms are predicted for tonight, but so far nothing. I hope there’s no tornado when I’m sound asleep.

 

Rain? Always hopeful

 

Rain all weekend, they said, and we all rejoiced. But then they said, “Maybe a little on Saturday, but for sure on Sunday.” Sunday was indeed gray, like it could rain soon. Christian worried that Jacob wouldn’t get his practice golf game it, but he did with no problems. By late afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, French doors to the patio open, marveling at how still the world was. Still waiting for rain.

All of a sudden, a whisp of cool air, and the wind was ruffling the trees. The sky darkened, and I thought, “Here it comes for sure.” Pretty soon, though, it was still again. Now an hour later there is the lightest breeze moving the trees, it is still too gray for the time of day, and the air definitely feels cooler. But rain? Not yet.

My family has gone to a John Mayer concert in Dallas. Jordan got home at three-something on the Vonlane bus from Austin, and they were all out the door at four-thirty to ride the train to Dallas. Made me, just awake from a deep nap tired, but then I am not a John Mayer fan, though I admit if I were ever to go to a concert, his is probably one I’d like better than a lot of others. I think the boys in the family deserve credit for being willing to make the mom happy—Christian bought expensive tickets not because he’s wild about Mayer but because he’s wild about Jordan who is wild about Mayer. And Jacob? I doubt it’s his kind of music, but he got to take a buddy, and he’ll enjoy the outing. And if Sawyer, the hard rock musician in the family, could go last week and enjoy, so can Jacob and his friend.

Meanwhile I sit home and wait for rain. In a few minutes I’ll fix myself a loin lamb chop and a salad. I’ve written the last line of the first draft of Finding Florence, the third of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. No, I didn’t rush it off to the printer. There’s lots of work ahead—editing on my part which means at least two more pass throughs, sending the mss. to beta readers, and considering their suggestions and questions, sending it to my longtime mentor if he is still ready to read, then sending it to a professional editor who works with cozy mysteries. Finally, I’ll send it to a graphic designer for formatting, cover design. One more proofing, and then she’ll post it to Amazon. Yep, it’s a months-long project.

But I’ve been thinking about what happens when you write a novel. One thing that’s come to my mind is that at the end of that first draft is you know your characters a lot better. That means, for me, that now as I go back and start over, I have to tweak the characters to let the reader know them better. I must fill our not only descriptions but actions and words by which they reveal themselves.

And another thing I found tonight just going over three chapters is that as I went through that first draft, I was putting words on paper—but sometimes they contradicted each other, or left holes in the plot, or raised questions, “Why did so-and-so do that?” or “Would she really have said that?”

I won’t read more chapters tonight because I want to do this slowly with focused concentration. After a bit, my focus wanders. So I’ll spend the rest of the evening reading that Diane Mott Davidson novel I’m deep into—Dark Tort. A good mystery with lots of food talk and recipes.

Have a great week everyone!

A day of good things

 

Getting my first vaccination shot

Sometimes good things seem to happen all at once, That’s what happened to me yesterday. A welcome change of pace from what days have been like lately.

First my doctor called, himself, in person, to ask if I wanted the first vaccine shot today. I said of course, and we made an appointment for 11:30 this morning.

Then Priscilla Leder who does a book review radio program out of San Marcos, sent me the questions she planned to ask in today’s interview about the book, The Second Battle of the Alamo.

And then I got an email from my editor at TwoDot Books with the edited version of my forthcoming (September) book, The Most Land, the Best Cattle: the Waggoners of Texas.

All this meant that today was a full day. Jordan drove me to the doctor’s office this morning, where an efficient procedure waited for us. We sat in the waiting room for just a few minutes and then went into a room where someone asked lots of questions about my health and, “Which arm?” We decided right because I sleep on the left. My one question was which vaccine, though it made no difference to me. I got Moderna. The shot is quick and painless—just a tiny prick—and then we had to wait in another waiting room for fifteen minutes to be sure I had no reaction. That was it. We were there at most half an hour.

Came home, took one of my frequent naps, and did the radio interview in my pjs. Priscilla does a thorough reading of the book and had prepared three single-spaced pages of questions. I in turn scribbled lots of notes on those three pages—principally minor characters names that I didn’t want to forget. A big worry for me was how much of the detail I would remember about the book—after all, it’s now been two years since I wrote the text and a year since the book was published. I’m happy that it all came back as we talked about it.

One big point, for me, was to acknowledge the late Debra Winegarten, who had the contract on the book and who asked me to write it once she was diagnosed with overwhelming terminal malignancy. I was pleased to be able to describe her as perhaps the most energetic writer I’ve ever met. Her partner wrote me late today to say how much she’d enjoyed the interview, and that made me feel good.

I haven’t yet even looked at the edits for the Waggoner book. That will probably be a weeks-long project, but I am eager to dig into it. One thing that bothered me as we went through the holidays was that I had no solid project to work on. So now I do.

This morning I was full of energy and minus the nausea I’d been feeling in recent weeks. I told the doctor I’d write tomorrow with a good report. That all went south, however, this evening when the nausea returned, and my energy drifted away. Since about six tonight I’ve had two short naps and will probably go to bed soon for the night. In the morning, I’ll send the doctor a long email. This is a terrible malady for someone like me who loves cooking, writes a food blog, and has compiled two cookbooks.

One interesting note: yesterday the yard crew came with their usual noisy equipment. Sophie was safely in the cottage, and I was napping—no surprise there. What worried me was that she never barked, not once. She usually goes ballistic, beyond control, unfazed by my reassurance that it’s all right and deaf to my pleas for quiet. I called Jordan and said I was afraid she was sick. Jordan suggested she knew I didn’t feel well and was watching out for me. Then it dawned on me—she has been sleeping by my bed instead of in her beloved crate. Dogs know. I’m wondering if with her acute sense of smell she sense illness in me that we, as people, can’t smell (thank goodness). I am so grateful for her company.

Tomorrow will be a better day. I just know it.

Coping with summer

Chicken stir-fry

Texas heat shouldn’t be a problem since we’re all quarantining anyway, right? Wrong. It doesn’t work that way. The other night, as we ate supper, Jordan glanced at the wall thermometer which is supposed to tell indoor/outdoor temperatures and announced it was 82 in the cottage. It does no good for me to tell her that thermometer has given up totally on the outdoor temperature and is wildly inaccurate about the indoor. Besides, I didn’t have a counterargument. It truly was hot.

It’s an old battle between us. I swear she has Mediterranean blood somewhere, and I lean toward my Scottish ancestors of the Highlands—Celtic and all that, but thin-blooded. I am cold all the time. I like my patio door open so that I feel a bit like I’m in the outdoors or bring the outdoors in to me and also so that Sophie can come and go as she pleases—mostly these hot days she pleases to stay inside. Jordan wants the a/co on and the door closed, which in summer makes me feel closed in.

Between them, Jordan and Christian “fixed” my living room a/c unit—the kind that sits up by the ceiling. I never can think what they’re called, but it’s both a/c and, in winter, a heating unit. Jordan washed the filters, a much overdue job, and Christian moved the fan from the first notch to the highest setting. Please do not ask why I didn’t think of that. And last night I also turned on the unit in my bedroom.

The result was that the cottage was at a chilly 70 degrees this morning, and I was chilly—not cold, just a bit uncomfortable—all morning. I kept the door closed in the afternoon but opened it again this evening for company on the patio. Tonight, the unreliable thermometer says its 81 in here, but I am quite comfortable. Jordan is engaged with a guest on her front porch, so I don’t have her take on the temperature.

We haven’t been cooking “dinner” much, since when dinnertime rolled around Jordan said she was too hot to think about food. So last night I had a hot dog, and tonight it’s tuna salad with cottage cheese. Tomorrow night, though, we plan to do salmon—I bet we do it in the oven, rather than asking Christian to grill.

We always try to make Sunday night dinner special, and last Sunday we had chicken stir-fry. When I suggested it, Jordan said, “Oh, good, Christian loves to stir-fry.” Later Christian said, “I’ve never made stir-fry before.” But he gamely found a recipe, followed it, and created a truly wonderful dinner for us. Monday night I fixed steak fingers, something I used to fix for my kids all the time. Had a hard time making Jordan and the butcher figure out what I wanted—minute steaks or cube steaks. With some surprise, after I’d blown a fuse trying to cook supper, Christian said, “The meat is good, Juju.” Watch for these recipes in an upcoming “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog. Along with two easy sides, which I’ll feature tomorrow.

I am knee deep in fixing edits on my WIP. The editor was kind, but some of her edits make me feel really dumb to have made such mistakes or omissions. She skewers me on two points—misogyny, for directing cooking instructions at housewives when in truth, a lot of career women and men cook these days. I know that, because both my sons are terrific cooks.

The other, which I am sure will delight Jacob, is that she suggests I use old-fashioned language. I’m trying to correct, because I realize thirty=somethings won’t talk like I do. But Jordan, bless her heart, said tonight, “You’re the least old-fashioned person I know.” Made my day. If I asked you “THE” question about a relationship with a previous partner, what would you think? Yeah, that’s what Jordan thought too.

Stay cool, safe, and well.

A busy day at the office

Honest, I think I worked harder today than when I had a “real” job. But at least I earned my keep. First on my list was proofreading the neighborhood newsletter. This time it was down to twenty pages, its normal length, but fraught with problems. The minor stuff involved mis-used italics, consistency of quote marks, and all those little errors that bother me but most readers might not notice. On the other hand, one of my neighbors is a proofreader, and she’s fussy. Then there was a historic photograph that I assumed came from a private collection. Wrong! When I investigated for a caption, I found out it came from an academic library’s special collections. So then I had to trace down permissions. I’m in the process of supplying proof that we’re nonprofit, but it has taken a lot of time.

I had a big accomplishment today too. Spoke, via Zoom, to a small book group. A friend and her four cousins have formed this remote group. Several are members of the Daughters of the Texas Revolution, and they read mostly Texas history. They just read The Second Battle of the Alamo. She asked, and I said I’d be glad to do meet with the ladies..

Not as easily done as said. First of all, I put make-up on for the first time in three and a half months. It did no good, because I was horrified when I saw all the wrinkles that showed up onscreen. Of course, I was looking at an in-the-face large version of me, but all the others saw was a tiny thumbnail. And since I usually work at my desk in whatever I slept in until mid-afternoon, this required that I “dress for the occasion.” So I had on a tangerine-colored top—but if you could have seen the bottom, you’d have seen lilac shorts (one of those color combinations that could be great or awful—I fear it was the latter). I assured myself no one would see. Wrong again! After the meeting started, I realized I forgot my hearing aids. Had to get up and go get them. Fortunately, I hope no one noticed since the pictures are so small and the camera mostly aims above the waist.

Of course, we were all amateurs at this remote meeting business. At first the woman in charge tried to get us together via Google Meet. Nobody, not a one, could get online. So then we went to Zoom. I’m almost pretty good at that—knew where to click to turn on audio and video. But when free Zoom decides you’ve used your time, they cut you off without warning—in mid-sentence. My friend said they were going to restart a separate meeting but after about ten minutes, she said they all gave up.

Still for the half hour or whatever it was, it was interesting and a fun challenge for me to answer their questions about Adina de Zavala and Clara Driscoll and what responsibility the Daughters of the Republic of Texas bear for the deterioration of the chapel and how the Alamo ended up in George P. Bush’s hands. And now I feel more confident about Zoom meetings. I filled out a speaker’s form for the FW Women’s Club today and indicated that I am not speaking to groups but would be glad to do a remote meeting. Courageous, that’s me!

After all that, it was lovely to sit on the patio with neighbors, sip wine, and talk about nothing much—until a fly decided to swim in my wine, and I had to throw it out. Still we had a good visit—thanks to Greg and Jaimie Smith for giving me a bit of human companionship and to Jay Mitiguy for scanning documents for me and then joining us on the patio. Greg kindly brought packages from the porch and moved the bougainvillea under the roof overhang in anticipation of the severe storms predicted for tonight.

I capped the evening off by repeating last night’s dinner—a salmon croquette (honest, I like them better cold than hot) and a zucchini casserole (yes, I heated that). So good. I could have eaten the extra croquette and bit of zucchini, but I restrained myself.

North Texas people, please stay safe if we do get those storms tonight.

A day with a goal and the virus gets up close and personal

Today dawned bright and sunny—I know because Sophie had me up at seven and again at seven-forty-five. But by late afternoon it had turned gray again, there was rain to the west of us, and rain in our forecast for tonight and tomorrow morning. Jordan insists tomorrow will be a lovely day and I will sit outside, because she’s going to clean the cottage and doesn’t want me to breathe the fumes. That means, Lysol spray and bleach and all those things I think are too strong for our environment. But, hey, I am grateful she does it, and yes, I’ll sit outside.

Today was a day with a goal: I worked on putting together the next issue of our neighborhood newsletter together. For once, I have a plethora of contributions—I think people took lots of pictures because they’re bored. It’s great and will make an interesting issue, but I have to figure out how to handle it. Still I was glad for the chore, because I know it has a goal—the issue will come out the first of May, the Lord willing and the Creek don’t rise. (Did you know that old saying does not refer to a flooded creek but to the days when settlers feared an uprising by the Creek Indians? That’s your history lesson for today). Anyway, so much of my time these days is spent on what you might call spec work—novels I don’t know will be published, research projects I don’t know will come to fruition—that I am grateful for a guaranteed project.

In the course of working on the Poohbah newsletter and skimming the internet, I’ve done what bored people do—collected bloopers. Here are a few:

--some one who referred to her under ware (underwear)—can’t remember the context but it wasn’t as risqué as it sounds;

--someone else who wrote about taking our lifestyle for granite (for granted)—maybe she meant it was carved in stone

---on a cooking site, someone referred to a well-flowered cake pan (well-floured)

--these remind me of a young lawyer I dated in my salad days who truly thought it was chester drawers (chest of drawers). Now that was supposed to be an educated man!

Corona virus got up close and personal today when I learned that my Bronx brother- and sister-in-law have both contracted it. He is in day 21 and almost well. I knew he had been tested, but it came back negative. His doctor/daughter said there is a 30% false negative result. Sure enough, tested again it came back positive. The first test was a method they have already discarded as not accurate, which shows you how much we are still learning about this virus. My sister-in-law has only shown symptoms for six days, but she says the disease “packs a wallop.” I worry about her, because I hear he is doing the cooking. I love him dearly, but a cook he’s not. I recently wrote him for his mother’s brisket recipe, and he patiently explained that he eats it, he doesn’t cook it. He referred my request to his wife, who was most helpful. I am grateful they both seem to be doing well.

I also worry about my niece from that family. For several years, she has been an R.N. on an orthopedic unit at Lennox General (in Manhattan, I think—my knowledge of New York is slim). Her unit has been converted to a COVID-19 unit, so she is one of the medical personnel in the thick of it. Her sister, a doctor with young children, is working from home—praise be.

My California relative that I can’t define (she is my ex-husband’s child by his second wife but feels like a daughter to me) writes that in Santa Clara, California, a study has shown that between 40,000 and 81,000 residents had the virus. The reported number of cases was 965. Pretty scary statistics.

As I write, it’s ten o’clock at night, and I hear the rhythmic sound of my grandson practicing basket shoots in the driveway. Got to love that kid. Sophie is, of her own accord, asleep in her crate. Nice now, but I wish it would last until at least eight tomorrow morning. That’s my magic hour.

Of dreams and final exams

There it was again, that dream that I’ve had so often. It hasn’t come for quite some time, but last night it came again. I’m in college, but I haven’t been going to class—indeed, don’t know how to find the classroom for whatever subject is involved. Of course, I haven’t been studying or keeping up. The dream takes several forms—sometimes I’m taking a class I despise, like paleontology. Sometimes it’s a subject I’m fairly good at but would still need to do the assignments. It always ends with my assuring myself that I already have a college degree, and I don’t need these credits. I’m told it’s the almost the most common recurring dream for many adults.

Last night’s version was a bit different. I knew I had a doctorate in English, but I wanted to teach, so I was back in school taking philosophy, English and French. I had to spend all my time on a thick, dense philosophy book, so I ignored English and French, subjects I’ve always been good at. There are several flaws in this dream: I never wanted to teach, because while I’m pretty good at leading workshops, I’m lousy at regular classroom presentations. I’ve done enough teaching at the college level in my day to know that I don’t shine in the classroom. But I wouldn’t need to go back to school if I wanted to teach—I have the qualifications already. So where did this come from?

Psychologists are reluctant to offer firm theories about dream interpretation, but off the record some suggest that this dream is typical of type A personalities, people with strong ambition and drive who like to be in control, feel a sense of urgency, and value success (guilty!). The dream is likely to come in times of stress, when the dreamer is afraid of not meeting a certain goal (guilty again!).

I would tell you there’s no stress in my life, but that’s not true. I suspect I live in a state of perpetual stress. Right now, the fact that I’m not enjoying driving my car and dread outings where I must drive alone is stressing me, but I can push that to the back of my mind. More prominent, and I recognize it, is stress over my current work-in-progress, the history of a major Texas ranch and the family who owned it for 165 years.

I finished a first draft, getting all the facts, the chronology, the timeline in order. The result is a manuscript that is much shorter than my editor wants, and when I read it, all I could think was “vanilla, it’s plain vanilla.” I know, from working with this editor before, what I must do—I have to go back and interject my storytelling skills, insert fictional scenes and dialogue to make it lively and readable. Of course, that horrifies historians, so I’m caught betwixt and between. But I will go back and begin editing all over again. I just keep procrastinating, and it weighs on my mind. Right now, I’m doing the easy stuff—reading for typos and repetition (gosh, there’s a lot of that) and stylistic inconsistencies. But I’m going to have to buckle down and get serious.

It’s easy to procrastinate these days, what with the national turmoil. I would say I spent a large portion of the morning reading about the latest developments, the latest intrigue—and posting responses online. Last night, a friend who is a political activist said to me, “Keep your opinions coming. They’re valuable.” I hope she’s happy today, because so many things I read about trump and Barr and Giuliani cried out to be shared, information that any intelligent voter needs to know. We live in perilous times, and I think the most important factor is an informed public—some will scoff and cry “fake news,” but the tide has turned.

Tomorrow I’ll get serious about that book.

Napping after a frustrating morning

When I napped this afternoon, I had the clear sense that I was in my childhood bedroom in the house in Chicago. My mom and brother were talking softly downstairs, because sound carried in that small row house. Downstairs were living, dining, and kitchen; upstairs, three bedrooms and the house’s lone bath. The house was only sixteen feet wide, though as a kid I thought it large. Delicious feeling to be back there again, even in my dreams. I’m sure Mom had cookies waiting downstairs.

The most frustrating morning today. I decided I could do advance reading copies through Amazon’s Create Space program without hiring an expensive designer or formatter. But I ran into problems, which I thought I could solve with a quick call to Amazon. Hah! There is no such thing as a quick call to Amazon, though their support service is willing and hepful. Still, I spent almost the entire morning on the phone, being bounced between techs at Kindle Direct Publishing and Create Space. By eleven, still in my pajamas, I reluctantly cancelled my lunch arrangements. I finally got it done and ordered the copies that were really needed last week, but it’s not a lovely professional job, good enough I hope for advance copies.

The market for mysteries these days is heavily skewed toward ebooks, and I honestly don’t sell many print. I’m old-fashioned enough that I want a print copy in my hands, but I’m also a realist—and today I made myself be a financial realist, balancing the advantages of print against the cost. When the book, Murder at the Bus Depot, comes out in May, it will be available in print, but I might advise for the ebook, which will be available on several platforms, not just Amazon.

I’ve been accomplishing a lot this week, and my other triumph for the day is that I finished the novel I’m editing for friend and fellow author Cindy Bonner. Cindy published several good novels in the nineties, until life called her to other occupations. Now she’s back to writing, and I’m delighted. The novel follows a Texas boy to England where he flies for the RAF in WWII, meets a Canadian female pilot, eventually flies for the USAAF. It’s compelling well done, accurate and convincing about the business of flying and life in England at the time. I look forward to seeing it in print. Meantime, though, Cindy’s agent advises it’s too long, and I’m charged with the task of helping her cut a whole lot of words. Yikes!

Tonight I’m allowing myself the fun of playing with recipes. French onion panade, anyone? Perhaps Fettucine Alfredo is a bit more accessible.

Understanding the weather—an impossibility

We did not get the predicted snow flurries or sleet last night, though I understand they showed up east of us. My son Jamie and his family live at the far northeast corner of the Metroplex in Frisco, and I probably live close to the southwestern corner. It’s amazing the difference in the weather we get—theirs is often more severe, and I think they got some kind of precipitation last night. We have another chance, oh joy!, Monday night when wintry weather is forecast.

A couple of patio plants take temporary refuge in my shower when it freezes, and I noticed today that the hydrangea has a bud. We need to put that plant outside where it’s cold and let it re-orient itself to the season!

We did get the perfect dinner last night for a truly cold night—chili. I asked Jordan if I should defrost either chili, left from Christmas, or the kitchen sink soup I’d made. Instead of choosing either, she said, “Maybe Christian will make chili.” And he did. He’s having fun trying different recipes, whereas I always stick to my tried and true. Sometimes Christian prowls through my book, Texas is Chili Country, but yesterday he searched on the web. Some recipes called for chocolate or cinnamon, both of which sounded good to me, but were not in what he ultimately fixed. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and I’ll have leftovers tonight. But I think Christian is usurping my place as the cook in the family. Sometimes I want to yell, “But I want to cook!” Still, I’m delighted he’s having so much fun doing it. Wish Jacob would show an interest in cooking.

Today a quick grocery trip, a pleasant visit with some of Jordan and Christian’s friends—who are also my friends—and I’m back in the cottage, reading more edits for Murder at the Bus Depot. I’ll probably tell this story too often, but credit for the idea behind that novel Post cover on FB, Guppies, etc goes to my friend Linda Preston of Granbury, Texas where they really do have an old, unsolved murder that took place in a bus depot. Some townspeople wanted to tear the old depot down, but Linda, who’s been active in preserving both Granbury history and buildings, held firm and had the depot moved to her property. I’ll have to ask if it’s still there.

Stay warm and safe.

Busy day…and a good one

Every evening when I type the date on my blog post, I wonder where the month of November has gone. How can we be halfway through already, with Thanksgiving a week away? I do NOT want to hear how many shopping days are left until Christmas. Have you done your shopping? I’ve got a good start on mine—all online ordering, since it’s hard for me to get out and shop, and I never was a good shopper anyway. Bless Amazon.

Worked long and hard today on the neighborhood newsletter but it’s the kind of work I enjoy—tracking down details, checking on facts, rearranging words and punctuation. For me, that’s fun. In one article there was a reference to a Miss Maberry. From context I could tell she grew up in our neighborhood in the 1920s, but she just seemed to hang there in space. It was an article reprinted from years ago, so the original author was not available to question. I asked a friend who’s an author/historian/archivist/researcher, and she soon came up with fascinating information on Miss Maberry, who apparently lived in her parents’ house all her life, a single lady. That kind of little stuff really excites me.

Tomorrow, back to editing the next novel. I’ve been dillydallying because my editor can’t look at it until January. But a conversation with dinner pal Betty tonight plus a reminder from my webmaster made me realize I have a lot to do between now and January 1 and I better get to it.

Betty and I took Jacob with us and went to a reception that Jordan’s new company gave to welcome her tonight. We only planned to stay fifteen minutes. She introduced us as only staying five minutes—is there a message there? Just kidding. We had both dressed carefully to make her proud, and we were so impressed with both the office space and the people. Lots of sincere greetings, a beautiful space with a lot of wood decorating it, a kitchen that was to-die-for and chefs from a cruise company at work in the kitchen. Bonus: good wine.

The office is U-shaped and wraps around a patio that is all wooden deck, with lights in the trees. The party drifted through the offices but was centered on the deck. Really classy event, and I’m so proud of my baby child and so happy for her.

We went to a local restaurant having a lobster festival, and I had a lobster roll—good, the meat tender (sometimes it’s not when you’re far from the ocean and it’s been frozen and cooked too long). Betty, who cannot resist shrimp just because I can’t have them, had lobster/shrimp Newburg. Jacob had cheese pizza, and we brought a whole lot of it home.

Nice, now, well-fed and socialized, to be home in jammies and at my desk. Jacob is supposed to be doing his homework. I can see that he just turned off the TV, so maybe that’s a step in the right direction.

The world seems to be in its place. Okay, we won’t talk about tax plans and health care bills though I can’t help giggling: 45 cut the advertising budget and enrollment time for the Affordable Care Act, aka Obamacare, as a way of killing it. A record number of people have already signed up. Anyone believe in karma?

Squirrels and Mud—and a Lesson from the Lord

One of those days I’m not sorry to see end. First thing this morning, as usual, I turned on my computer. It told me it was shutting down, and proceeded to do so for an inordinate amount of time. Finally got past that, and it wouldn’t accept my password, although I knew it was the one I’ve been using for months. It gave me a helpful message about changing the password at a web site—but I couldn’t access the site to change it! This went on for about an hour and a half. I tried the web site on my iPad, but was told it couldn’t be found. Jordan said, “No you can do it that way.” Finally used the cell phone, changed the password, and got in.

Meanwhile, the TV went in and out, couldn’t decide what it wanted to do. Finally did come on. A friend came for coffee, and we visited for about an hour.

Sophie was having the time of her life, frantically chasing squirrels. I’m not sure if the squirrels were taunting her more or what was different about today, but she ran all over the yard all morning, serenading us with that shrill, excited bark, and occasionally coming in for water. When I trapped her inside at lunch time, I suddenly saw that there was mud all over the floor, rug, and my bedroom carpet. I deliberately let it dry, thinking it needs a stiff brush to loosen it and then a vacuum. I did mop the wood floor and probably need to do it again, but I’m waiting until someone—Jordan—vacuums. Neither scrubbing the dirt loose nor vacuuming are on the list of things my hip will let me do.

Of course, there was a muddy dog to deal with. Since it never did rain here, I think she came in to drink, pawed at the water, and then went out—making her own mud. I cleaned her paws as best I could and pulled up the covers so she wouldn’t crawl into my bed. When she slept on the couch, I looked away. She has a regularly scheduled bath tomorrow morning, thank goodness.

Finally after lunch I turned to my editing project. I’m sure the Lord was teaching me a lesson—I don’t have to get it all done right away just because it’s there. So today I’m more relaxed about it. What choice did I have? It’s tedious work, mostly correcting commas or so it seems to me. I’m trying to create one manuscript with corrections and suggestions from the editor and the two beta readers so I’m merging corrections. I’ve finally developed a method for working with two versions on the screen at once that works pretty well. But it’s slow. I’ve finished six chapters, hope to get two more done tonight.

Tomorrow is just bound to be a better day. Reminding myself that too many people have problems that are much more severe than muddy carpets.

Losing my starch

Wonderful brunch today with good friends and some visitors. Sixteen of us all very jovial, great food—everybody contributed but the hostess prepared a cheese/chorizo/chilies strata for the main dish. Had a great time, practiced my walking and received a lot of “Look at you!” compliments. But wine and heavy food at mid-day took the starch right out of me. Came home and slept for an hour and a half.

I had to leave for brunch in the middle of editing the last chapter of my work-in-progress, and I did finish going through it when I got home. I still have to fix two minor problems for plot and character consistency. One is that I introduced a cool new character and then couldn’t figure out how to get her back in the action. I think she’ll be prominent in a future book, but I’m at a loss as to what to do with her in this one. I did bring her back for a brief appearance, but I need to insert her again toward the end, and she doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. Maybe my beta reader will help.

I also have to add a title page and copyright page to the front and an author’s bio at the back. Housekeeping chores that I can easily do tomorrow before I send it to beta reader (via a print shop) and editor. Not going to tackle them tonight, because, you know—that starch that I lost.

I laughed at myself, because even in the midst of enjoying the company at brunch I had the feeling I couldn’t wait to get back to the book. And then I had to remind myself that I wrote it, so I know what’s going to happen. It isn’t as though I haven’t read it a half dozen times. Someone suggested to me my feeling of being caught up in it is a good thing, bodes well for other readers.

The book’s title has been problematic too—I’ve settled on Pigface and the Perfect Dog. My small online writers group approves though one person pointed out that it could easily be a y/a title, which it isn’t. I explained the cover art would have to carry the burden of making the genre clear. That and the blurb—oh, dear, blurb. Something else I forgot. When you think you’re through with a novel, you’re not!

I think it’s time to sit on the patio and chill, enjoying the evening. Supper? No, thank you I couldn’t.

This, that, and cheese

Do you what a difference six or eight degrees in temperature can make? Today we were in the upper 90s, lots better than the 106, 108 we’ve been having. And the humidity is low. This morning I put the top down on my car on the way to an early morning haircut appointment—about a 25-minute drive by my back roads route. What a glorious way to begin the day.

My funk is disappearing, although my uncertainty about walking is not. When I went into the salon, I asked a stranger to get me started—it’s that first step. I’ve found all kinds of people so willing to help me. Coming out, just because I’d been spooked, I asked Rosa, who does a terrific job with my hair, to walk me to the car. She is like a mother hen, worrying about me. She has a two-year-old who has been slow to walk, and this morning she said I walk just like him—awkwardly (not her word), like I’m looking for what I can hang on to next. At home, I walk just fine. It’s a matter of a comfort zone.

Had lunch with an old friend I haven’t seen in too long today. But he too worries about falling, takes my arm, declares I’m not going to fall on his watch. We had a great time catching up on kids and grandkids (he knows my kids, needs a refresher course every now and then) and I’ve met his, kept up with their doings through the years. But we ended up in a kind of morbid discussion of people who were ill and who had died—to the point that I told him so-and-so had died, he exclaimed, “She died?” And then we both laughed. It was like too much. I guess it’s age, though he’s a good fifteen years younger than I am.

Proud that tonight I finally finished edits, rewriting on my Murder at Peacock Mansion manuscript. And then I cleaned out the cheese drawer in my fridge. Central Market has the most amazing wall of cheeses from all over, mostly Europe and the US. I can't resist buying, often of course the one they have on display. I tend to end up with a hunk of this and a hunk of that, and I’m not sure what any of them are. So tonight I made fromage fort, a recipe that is all over the web now but I originally found through Jacques Pepin, who said his father used to make it.

Take about a pound of leftover cheeses, add three or four cloves garlic (the garlic gets really strong so go gentle), a tsp. of pepper, and a half cup dry white wine. Blend in food processor (I’m sure Pepin’s father did not have one, but it’s the easy way to do it). You end up with a spread that is different every time but earns its French name which means “strong cheese.” If you use leftover Roquefort or blue, it’s a whole different thing. Tonight I had cheddar, havarti, manchego, and a few I didn’t know what they were. Saving tasting it for tomorrow night’s dinner guests.

Yep, writing, cooking, entertaining—I’m getting my groove back. Now for my self-confidence.

Overcoming inertia

 Once I told a colleague that I usually got food for the cat while swishing mouthwash around in my mouth because who wants to just stand there for sixty seconds. She howled with laughter. “You of all people would not want to waste sixty seconds.” And that’s been the pattern of my life—maybe a little shy of OCD but not much. I’ve always kept busy.
Lately I’ve been troubled by a lack of energy, an unwillingness to do simple chores around the house, though I’m perfectly content to follow odd leads, read long e-mails, etc. at my computer. Is it the much-dreaded computer addiction? Is inertia a sign of aging? What happened to my ambition? It’s been worse, of course, since my swollen foot. I’ve written enough about that to last a lifetime, but I will say it’s better today—not perfect, but I’m wearing shoes and making a conscious effort to walk normally.
This morning I decided my project would be to dig in to the reader’s “points to ponder” in “Murder at Peacock Mansion”—they were all valid points that added depth to the manuscript, like a reference to Miss Havisham or the subtle difference between using “handgun” and “pistol.” Ten minutes later I’d taken care of all of them, so I decided I would read through the manuscript one more time before sending it to the editor.
About noon, while I ate lunch, I took a break and turned to the novel I’m currently reading. Didn’t take me long to decide my own manuscript was more interesting—is that ego or what?—and go back to editing. It’s amazing what you find even though you’ve read the darn thing countless times. Today I found a woman had two children on one page, one a bit later, and then four. Now she only has one—a spoiled diva of a young woman. I found on my own places where I could add a little depth of character, a little more sense of place—and I was having fun doing it.
Tonight I’m through—my mysteries are fairly short—and pleased with the result. One place I need to go back and tweak and then it goes to the editor. So maybe I’m past inertia. I also did two loads of laundry, tried on a new shirt I’d ordered and decided to keep it (it lay on the bedroom chair for several days), and managed to keep up with the kitchen—not hard when I’m home alone all day and a friend brings supper. But I’m going to keep working on this inertia thing—there are always little things to be done: the dishwasher should be run—it smells musty which may signal the end of my not using the hot-dry cycle; there’s a blue canvas bag on the dining room floor that belongs to a friend but needs to be safely stored for her; a few clean clothes to hang in my closet. Little stuff like that I once would never have overlooked and now I do. I have decided to tackle a bit of it each day.
Sweet dreams, friends.

 

 

A cooking triumph

I did it! I got a perfect sear on sea scallops for supper tonight. Sorry to be so excited about what may seem mundane, but it was a big deal to me. The trick with sea scallops is to get that brown crust on the outside without cooking the inside until it's rubbery. I did it tonight in a skillet with a little olive oil and a little butter--and high heat. Then it requires patience, but not much really. They sear within maybe three or four minutes; flip and let the other side sear and you're done. Maybe a little salt and pepper but that's all. I used to put soy sauce on them--now I wonder why I hid that delicate flavor. It was a perfect dinner--scallops, corn on the cob, and fresh fruit. A trick I just learned about corn--stick the whole thing, husk and all, in the microwave and cook four minutes. When it cools enough to handle, the husk and silk peel right off. It doesn't have that carmelized taste of corn cooked on the grill, but it's fast and easy. My fruit was blueberries, raspberries, and mango chunks. I don't buy whole mangos--they're so darn hard and messy to deal with, so I buy the already cut-up chunks. But sometimes I think Central Market chunks them before their time--these were a bit, uh, al dente. Darn, I should have taken a picture of this really good supper for one.
A nice quiet day--what with being gone two nights, running like a mad hen to do errands and meet friends for lunch and dinner yesterday I needed a quiet day. Went to the grocery and was astounded at how little I bought. Mailed packages at the post office, picked up some medicine to treat Sophie's itchy dry skin, and I was home for the day.
I've been working on second edits for The Gilded Cage--mostly pretty routine stuff by this point, like accepting comma insertions, changing figure from Arabic to written out, etc. So I take frequent breaks to read Grace Cries Uncle by Julie Hyzy.
I think one thing I learned on my ranch getaway was that I don't have to work every minute. I can take time to watch the cows or read a novel. So far, with two days under my belt, I'm loving it!

A weekend vacation

No, I haven't been anywhere. I've been home, but it's felt like a vacation. Jacob with his grandparents, his parents in Cancun, and me at home--reading, editing, doing whatever I wanted at my own pace. I finished one book, started another, which keeps calling me back, read the edits on a manuscript, and made a brief stab at formatting an older manuscript I intend to re-invent.
But primarily it's been a weekend of my favorite foods. Friday night I made myself salmon croquettes--I've learned to do them a way that is a bit easier than my mom's way, which I've done for years. They're one of my favorite foods, not only because they're delicious when freshly made but because they make wonderful sandwiches the next day on rye bread with mayonnaise. And that, of course, was my lunch on Saturday.
Saturday evening my good friend Sue (Canadian daughter as I call her, after the dubbed me her Fort Worth mom) came for dinner, and I scrambled eggs with diced smoked salmon, chopped tomato, and sliced scallions. It's a one-dish meal and so easy, but so good.
Tonight good friends are coming for pasta--at least that's what they think. But I'm really going to make a family favorite--green noodles. This dish, which my kids love, has a history. When my brother was dating his first wife, she had little money. One night when he was coming for dinner and her cupboard was bare, she melted butter, added spaghetti and lemon juice. Over the years I've added to that bare-bones recipes, first substituting spinach tagliatelle for spaghetti and then adding sliced scallions, chopped artichoke hearts, and mushrooms. A few years ago when I had my first bumper crop of basil and made my own pesto, I added a frozen ice cube of pesto and topped the whole thing with parmesan. It's another one-dish meal, served with crusty bread. Comfort food that brings happy family memories.

Green noodles

1 16-0z. pkg. spinach egg noodles
1 stick butter
8 oz. mushrooms, sliced (I always buy whole and slice them myself)
4 scallions, chopped
1 can quartered artichoke hearts
1 ice-cube size piece of pesto, thawed (about one Tbsp.)
Juice of one lemon (more to taste)
Grated fresh Parmesan
Cook and drain noodles. Melt butter in the skillet. (Megan, weight-conscious in high school, used to insist that was too much butter, and it may be--use part olive oil.) Sauté the mushrooms and scallions in the butter. Add lemon juice to taste—I like lots; the mushrooms soak up the lemon and are delicious. Add artichokes and noodles and toss to coat. Heat briefly to warm. Top with Parmesan and serve.

Snow--or lack thereof--dictates

I woke this morning with a schedule in my head. I'd work a bit in the morning, go to the Planned Parenthood Luncheon downtown, have a nap, and do a late grocery run. Once again, snow--and the weather forecast--changed my whole plan. Between a half inch and an inch was forecast from ten in the morning on. I made a speed run to the grocery, wimped out on the luncheon because it would be just when the snow hit, and settled down for a long day of work. You guessed it--I saw not one snowflake. Streets are dry except for patchy ice, and all is well with the world. I should have gone to the luncheon. I missed a good menu and, worse yet, good friends.
I do not want this to repeat again tomorrow, because I have to go to the store for fresh fish for company tomorrow night. The weather forecasters assure us the snow is over, but at this point I'm not sure about them.
Staying home for a long day of work was not bad. Once again I did a lot of little things that needed doing, including some outside chores I'd neglected the day before. And I did my yoga, which went a lot better today--my muscles seemed to be remembering the pattern or rhythm.
But the big thing for me, was that I am getting back to work as a writer. I'd had the intent ever since Christmas but kept getting distracted--which tells me my heart wasn't really in it. Several things have combined to renew my enthusiasm, and I can feel work--and enthusiasm--rising in me like a great tide (oops, I think that's hyperbole). Several people have told me how anxious they are for the next Kelly O'Connell Mystery--now even if my reputation and "fame" are purely local, that's a good feeling. Then the other day I received first edits on Kelly #5--Deception in Strange Places--and set about working on them today. A tip of my hat to my editor, Suzanne Barrett, who "gets" my writing and makes it oh so much better, while making me adhere to some rules of grammar I casually cast aside--alright is not a word. It's all right.
Yesterday, at Suzanne's request, I spent much of the day revising the synopsis for Kelly #6--don't know the title but it will have something to do with revenge. So now, ideas for that one are crowding my brain, and I'm anxious to get back to it. In a flurry of inspiration (?), I actually wrote 10,000 words in January and then many other things, including kids visit and taxes, took me away. But I think I'm about to settle down to a good routine of writing and daily yoga, and I'm happy about that. So snow days...and even non-snow days...aren't all bad.
I have the opening ceremonies of the Olympics on, muted, and frankly, except for one wonderful display (maybe China?) I find it boring. It's going to be a long two or three weeks.
Stay safe and warm everyone--it's still going down into the twenties here tonight. But a brief warm-up is headed our way.

That kind of a day

It's been that kind of day around here--slow and not much going on. Sophie was so bored she decided to dig into her toy basket herself. She did have some play time with Jacob, and it was fun to see how protective she is of him. When his dad wrestled with him, she got really upset and tried to jump into the fray. She also "talked" in her own expressive way.
I've been editing a manuscript all day--it's probably been ten years in the writing, but I really hope it sees the light of day this year. It's been edited, but I'm going through it again, checking the edits, finding things I want to change. I imagine I could go through it ten more times and find things to change. There comes a point where you just have to trust yourself. This is one I think I want to self-publish as an experiment, so I want to be sure it's perfect. But all editing makes a long day, and Sophie too has felt the boredom.
I need to get back to  yoga--haven't done any exercise in almost a month because I'm not sure how to go about it in an orthopedic shoe. It seems easier to just wait---two weeks and two days--than to figure out what I can and cannot do, but I know that's a cop-out. I have however been very active--from housework to walking, running errands, etc. Not a couch potato--that's my justification.
Last night I made chicken soup--good flavor, funny thick and long noodles that I had in the cupboard. Tonight when Jacob was hungry, I fished out the meat (he does NOT like meat) and gave him noodles--the soup had turned very thick in the fridge and didn't produce that much liquid when heated--guess the noodles soaked it all up. "I don't like noodles," he announced. I reminded him he'd eaten them a week or two ago, and he said, "Well, I don't like them now." His dad came along, liked the soup, and after eating a bowl took the rest home with him. I was glad to send it since I have dinner plans the next three nights and lunch plans two out of three days (ah, the whirlwind life of the retiree).
Nice news tonight--the neighborhood newsletter I've been editing since spring has won an award from the city Neighborhood office. The former editor, good friend Mary Dulle, and I will go to the awards dinner Wed. night.Surprisingly, when Mary posted the announcement on Facebook, it got lots and lots of comments. Nice feeling for both of us.
Tonight I am grieving with young friends who have been dealt the kind of blow that I don't know how you recover from. I have faith they will recover, and I remember them in my prayers, but the devastation they must feel now is beyond my comprehension. I want so badly to reach out, but there is nothing I can do. This winter, with its unpredictable and sometimes miserably cold weather, has been a bad one for sickness and death. As my friend Jim says, "There's a world of hurt out there."
The whole day makes me think that life has its ups and downs--moments of joy, times of great grief, boredom and busyness. I guess we each have to learn to balance them for ourself.

Peoria, white shoes, and long holiday weekends

Bored Sophie

 



Many years ago, my mother was walking down a Chicago street with two friends, one of whom considered herself an expert on style and all things fashionable. “You never wear white shoes after Labor Day,” she intoned. “People will think you’re from Peoria.” My mother’s other friend was indeed from Peoria, and it was a touchy situation for a while. But Labor Day is the time we mark the traditional end of summer, though it will be hot for another month in Texas. Still, it’s  unfortunate that the true origin of the holiday has been overshadowed by the fact that it’s time to say goodbye to summer, put away those white shoes and bags, and welcome fall. Actually I haven’t worn white shoes, except tenners, in a long time.

Holiday weekends can be long when you live alone. I find like a lot of other things the anticipation is worse than the reality. I began to worry last week about how to fill my weekend, but I had Jacob overnight Saturday, we met his mom at church on Sunday, and Sunday night I went to a nice gathering at the home of neighbors—stayed out later than I’m used to.

Today, though, I’ve had my face in the computer screen all day—wrote a belated Potluck with Judy (should have written it last night but all creativity was gone when I got home). Mostly, though, the day was spent doing second edits on a manuscript for my publisher. It’s a good story, and you’ll like the book when it comes out—probably titled Poplar Place. The author, Ellen Butler, and I addressed structural issues and the like in the first edits, and she’s done a nice job of clearing up some questions. She’s also stood up for herself a few times, as in “Please leave this.” Now I’m doing line by line copy-editing, which is a bit slow. So far today I’ve done 129 pages.

Sophie found my day particularly dull. None of her special friends came to visit her, and I’m no fun, though I did throw a toy for her a lot this morning. Poor baby—she’s wandered around, sometimes disconsolately with a toy in her mouth. Tomorrow Jacob will be here briefly to cheer her up.

I didn’t find the day as dull as she did because I was occupied and had a goal, but I’ll be glad of human contact tomorrow—haven’t even talked to anyone on the phone today—and I’ll be glad to return to routine. Still a day like this every once in a while is good for the soul—and sure makes you feel efficient.