Had a really good time at the covid free ranch where our friends live with their snuggly wuggly horses. You’d never know these critters don’t follow them into the house at night and sleep at their feet. Never saw such horses. Three different shapes, sizes, and colors but they all have that quality of well worked with pets who do not know they are too big to sit in your lap and watch tv. For some reason, they had a real liking for Hubbin, rubbing up against him like kittens, really big kittens. I think he smells like the oatmeal he eats and they think he’s got treats. I was around horsy people as a kid but I was never the girl who loved horses. Anything that big can hurt you by accident if you don’t watch your feet and the things around you that might not move if you get wedged into the wrong spot. They also give me quite the itch, water, and snort. I like the darn things but never can get too cozy.
The card-playing and pecan pie made me skip announcing my novel yesterday. I was too tired to start at midnight. This morning I was up by 3 am because clocks are Bulldada and put up a title so I can begin begin begin…
Here’s a development with this writing thing. November gets me word count but I seem to have 2 or 3 very different storylines going before it’s all done and usually nothing that could blend together. I’ve promised myself that 20021 will be the year I just pick one thing and work it to the end, then pick another thing and do the same.
My friend Hope gave me a journal, some swag she got from work, and it’s perfect for my revitalized letter-writing campaigns. The personal note is a new Sunday diversion. Hope said she’s started doing this too. I wanted to talk further about how we both independently came to the same activity but the boys got started on something and we shifted the conversation elsewhere.
Have some pretty specific things I have to get done today or tomorrow but mostly I need to dig into my Dharma bunker and let the Gods of word count rule. Man, it’s a mess down here. Where do I start? Grab that pile of mixed-up records – my father’s weird stuff and my own long neglected- and start the “word wars” with myself. 15 minutes of Roger Whitaker (Dad), 15 minutes of Mario Lanza(Mother), 15 minutes of Devo (Me)…ready set go.