This is the season for me to be completely nonproductive. The weird weather in CA is calling me to pile up the pillows, pull up the blankets, grab some good books and stay out of real life.
My reading has included Fred Vargas (love her characters, hate the messiness of her crimes), Alan Bradley--about whom I cannot say too much good, since no praise is high enough for his wacky Flavia and beautiful writing--a bit of Welty and Flannery O'Connor, and a book by P.D. James discussing mystery writing, which is a joy. And a few other mysteries by writers who've let me down and caused me to despair for the whole profession. However, the poor writers also give me hope. If they can find an agent and publisher, then surely I....
My writing lately has been poetry. Piles of it. It's a place for me to vent and entertain myself--and sometimes others--while continuing to prime the pump of creativity. The novels are not being written, but they languish not. The creativity flows, so they shall be finished anon. Whenever that is.
Twelve Days of Boots: Day 7 by The Pioneer Woman
15 hours ago