It’s a golden day. Warm with a taste of cool. Clear blue sky, leaves turning. The drone of a piper cub whispers in the air. No traffic. Birdsong gently disturbs the silence. Needs a crisp apple, or cider. My fave time of year.
I see I’m writing for myself, and that is going to be okay. Thinking and typing disturbs the dust, rattles my cage a little, spills out thoughts I didn’t know I had. Encourages me, as the memoir sits and stews, waiting for the final edit of the proposal, to mull the sequel. I’ve lived a lot of life and some of it is worth telling, sharing, pushing forward. There will always be more, until the last day on the hidden calendar. If that were today, I’d know I’d come to the end of my tale. It would be enough.
I’m not a patient person, alas. So waiting through literary agents to find my stuff in their pile is a discipline. I have, as I might have said, experienced them, by and large, as attentive, thoughtful people who seem to be most interested in wanting to do their best when that is possible, and to be frank about when that might not be good for us both. I salute them here, though they likely will not know it. And more, they want to be helpful and encouraging even when they don’t believe they can be my source for that needed help.
The day beckons. I’ll postpone cleaning the bathrooms, doing the wash, and instead drive north and run errands. And leave my computer on idle for a few hours. Plenty of time in the dark of night to get to my writing. Today is too gorgeous to stay indoors.