Thursday, November 4, 2021

29 degrees at the Alcott House. Welcome to frost country.

It's about time, really. I'm used to frost by my birthday, and that was a month ago. The garden is clearly ready to sleep, but winter-kill has played hard to get, and the tender annuals have droopily hung onto life. Now, finally, they'll get some rest, the leaves will finish falling from the trees, and those annoying caterpillars will disappear from the kale.

Yesterday I began my painful blurb quest, and it actually went far better than expected: a very well known poet has kindly agreed to write one for me, and I am blushing and relieved. And I've secured cover-art permission and inserted a few missing pieces into the ms. I am not a natural procrastinator, but book production makes me shuffle and worry and itch, and I am always trying to avoid it.

Overall, though, I've been doing pretty well at getting stuff done. I've caught up with the contest reading, made steady progress with the editing stack, finished the writing prompts for the Homer class, did some deciding about teaching-conference faculty, and tackled those pesky manuscript chores. This morning I'll do some more editing, and maybe start setting up the Homer class website, and then by midday I'll be driving north to Augusta to meet a Harmony friend at Viles Arboretum. We're going to eat a picnic lunch and then wander around among the trees together and gossip about this and that, and I can hardly wait. It's been ages since I've seen her, though we've been trying to get together for months. I do miss my old friends.

Plus, Tom's going to be out with photographers tonight, so possibly I'll go to that Thursday-night writing session again. Look at us being so sociable. Who knew we had it in us?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights and live laborious days; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, 
And slits the thin-spun life. 
--John Milton, "Lycidas"

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