…is spending the evening trying to get a hank of wool out of its crazy 8 formation and into a ball I can actually knit with.
Sometimes writing a novel feels an awful lot like waiting. And what does any sane person do while waiting?
I’m trying to figure out the last chapter of this novel I’m working on. I mean, I know how it ends, I just don’t know how to get there.
Sigh. I know.
It’s the words. I’m waiting for the words.
Meanwhile, I’ve been doing a lot of knitting.
It had been a dark and stormy afternoon, so after supper Sam and I decided to get out for a walk before it got too dark. Or at least before it started to rain again.
It was kinda spooky, to tell you the truth…
The light had an eerie copper post-storm tinge to it and there was a strange moaning sound in the distance that lasted the entire 45 minute walk. If my name was Dorothy and I lived in Kansas with my Auntie Em, I’d be running for the storm cellar. It was really weird. So weird that we actually turned around and went home, our imaginations in overdrive.
I looked across the lake and saw a bank of fog moving in. One by one, the lights on the other side went out as the fog came closer. No wait… that was a Stephen King novel I read. Sorry.
I’ve only ever read three Stephen King novels in my entire life, do you believe it?..That foggy one (which I can’t remember the name of, his latest one (which I also can’t remember the name of), and The Dome.
I’ve tried to read others, but just can’t get past the first 30 pages. Actually, I’m doing good if I get that far. Sorry, Mr. King. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
For the rest of the evening I have another scary task to look forward to… Frogging this bit of knitting.
No, scratch that bit of political correctness. What I really mean to say is fuckety fuckfuckfuck.