She spent it on cheap contraception

Obviously. And too late.

Nope. Still not writing a novel. Just checking in to see if I am an instant blog-related cure yet. Doing lots of things I hate doing, instead, today; tasks involving black plastic bags and chemicals and tough decisions about when a favorite old dress becomes a symptom. This has made for a productive day, in a traditional American "busy hands are happy hands" pioneer in the sod hut, mind-numbing, big trash day sort of way. One of the best things about writing this novel, I'm finding upon reflection, is that it has freed me up to do those things--some huge and decades overdue--I used to feel guilty about not doing while gleefully revising a sticky paragraph for the fortieth time.

You don't revise your paragraphs forty times? It is rock tumbling. Loop back, up and over and back again, dozens of times, then rest, then more dozens of times, until the shape of the story reveals itself. It is the Fool's method, a journey begun with a first misstep and a fall from a great height. I miss it so much.

So, it's good to take down the Christmas tree and put up the stacks of disaster supplies, and I feel very proud of myself, but it's still not writing. On the other hand, I know exactly where to find all the sterno, the matches, the batteries, the candles, the dog crates, the window tape, the cans of food no one would eat except in disastrous circumstances and the metal gizmo you heat it up with. With which you heat it. Up. Which, with the heat...the sterno stove. Hurricane Season is here. After last year, we capitalize it.