Time Out

I have to take a time out for a day or so.  Too many things crowding around me this weekend...

My mother and her sister are coming tomorrow so Mom can pick up a desk I want to give her. It's a very cool computer table-type affair with a glass top that will look good with Mom's stuff--though frankly, even if it didn't look good with her stuff, she wants it, I don't, please take it away.

Last week, when these plans were made, we had decided to go shopping, once they get here in the morning, have lunch, then come back here, load Mom's car with the desk, and off they'll drive into the sunset. Then my realtor calls after the all-day Open House yesterday and I have two appointments for "sometime" Saturday for viewing the house. Course, I can't say no to the prospective buyers, but I can't say no to my mother either. So, my realtor will come up to show the house, and somewhere between shopping and the scheduled lunch, I will make a mad dash up the mountain to collect the boys before any strangers arrive.

There might be another Open House this Sunday as well, though I'm not sure yet, and won't know until early Sunday morning. Ah well. It's not easy moving on, starting over, and this is just the first leg of the journey. I'd better woman up, there's a long way to go.

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I also want to do some thinking about Pilgrimage, the story I started the other day.  I thought I knew where I was going with it, but was as surprised as Will when we rounded that corner and found someone on the trail ahead of us. 

My writing style is basic:  Whatever flows out of my mind.  I rarely do an outline, so sometimes I'm caught off guard when a character makes an unexpected appearance, or the plot goes somewhere I hadn't imagined.  When I wrote my first book, I had three separate situations arise that were totally out of my control, not in my head at all, twists in the plot that just threw me.  But, once I got over the shock and let the story unfold, the changes made the story more cohesive, deepened the mystery, and gave me such a rush I still haven't recovered.  There's something wild and energizing and spooky when you become a conduit and the story begins to write itself--or the characters take over, wanting their voices heard, no matter what you, the mere author, are trying to say for them.

So, I need to get Will and the unexpected mystery woman off that ledge, on the Annapurna Trail in Nepal, before the wind gets worse and blows them right out of the plot.  Just don't know yet where things are going.  I'm waiting to hear the voices...

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Weather is spectacular again today, low 70s, freakishly beautiful, though we are to get a tremendously bad storm late in the weekend that is supposed to carry into next week with snow, inches of rain, wind, flooding--the usual violent, crazy weather of Spring.

After a very long walk this morning to appease the boys after being housebound yesterday, I went shopping, stocking up for the coming siege.  Among other things, I bought a rotisserie chicken to share with the dogs, plus I might make a big pot of chicken soup on Sunday, if there isn't an Open House.

And hey.  Am I the only one who stands at the kitchen sink and eats?  I'm beginning to worry that the more time I spend alone, up this mountain, the less socially acceptable I'm becoming.  Picture this:  Nice, crispy chicken leg.  Me, leaning on elbows gnawing away, bits of stuff falling into the sink, fingers slippery with the fatty juice.  Do I care?  Hell no.  I devoured that leg like a Neanderthal, the dogs at my feet begging for anything I might drop their way.  Which was nothing.  Tossing the bone into the bin, I washed my hands, scrubbed my lips, and rinsed the crunchy bits down the drain.

I spared a thought for the efficiency of eating over the sink: no plate, no silverware, no napkin.  Just the chicken and me.  No fuss, no muss.  Then I imagined how it would look if someone had seen me.

Holy crap.  I'm morphing into a barbarian.