Excuse me, please, for not blogging much lately, but I have a good reason, or at least, a few of them. I started another new book, one others will read in the future, not one already published. Yeah, I have a new child. Her name is Goldenrod and she is 6,300 words old. She's taking those first non-expositional steps and I feel I can trust her not to fall down the staircase without watching her every second. I'm still revising Seneca, and preparing for class in a couple weeks, along with the day job, the child, the animals, turning 40, and taking care of various stages of crisis in my life.
For instance, I opened the door to the house last night after braving the icy wind to receive my FACULTY ID from the community college (woohoo!) and I immediately turned to my son and accused him of spilling sour cream on the carpet without telling me or cleaning it up. Yeah, it smelled that bad. Turns out, broccoli needs to be taken to the garbage OUTSIDE and not left inside overnight when it doesn't steam and stays a frozen lump in the vegetable steamer and no one eats it. My son wasn't planning to eat it, anyway. So I didn't eat it, he didn't eat it, and the cats pretty much steered clear of the trash can.
For instance, I opened the door to the house last night after braving the icy wind to receive my FACULTY ID from the community college (woohoo!) and I immediately turned to my son and accused him of spilling sour cream on the carpet without telling me or cleaning it up. Yeah, it smelled that bad. Turns out, broccoli needs to be taken to the garbage OUTSIDE and not left inside overnight when it doesn't steam and stays a frozen lump in the vegetable steamer and no one eats it. My son wasn't planning to eat it, anyway. So I didn't eat it, he didn't eat it, and the cats pretty much steered clear of the trash can.
And if the smell of rotting broccoli in a closed-up house won't pull you out of a creative haze, nothing will.
