writing. . .

. . . is like getting a chicken to admit that dogs are useful. Or vice versa. You go around and around, logic stats, charts with color coded meanings and in the end, you are left with the same result: neighbors who wish you'd move.

Happy to oblige!

I am moving to the country, which is ultimately why we came out to the Blue Ridge Mountains after all, right? Scenery. Cows. Horses. Chickens. Tired of traffic, crime (which does exist here, surprisingly, on my street), and I'm not all that kosher on my conservative neighbors who hate gays. Really? In this day and age? I suppose each generation must wait for another to die off before progress is really pushed forth. At some point, being an Athiest may not -- good God, what am I saying?

Yeah, this is the South. But the South is a-changing my friends. Because people like me keep coming here! Yay!

So the writing is going, but I have discovered to my great chagrin that my character is a rather depressed woman. Like, I want to give her a pep talk. Steer her clear of this trouble she's creating for herself. But she won't. She just keeps on going. So I'm letting her go and we'll see where she lands.

On the other hand, Gemma keeps asking where her book is. I told her I was writing her one (which I am), but my focus seems to be on one thing at a time and so her little book is on the back burner. Bad, bad mothering.

Hoping for a swift move, a swift unpack and house arranging, and a little table in the garden with the chickens for more conversation and a Virginia Woolfesque writing life devoted to something really, really artful. I almost want to start a publication. Almost.