We have had an unusually long winter, and I am not happy about it. Most years the grass needs mowing in late February, early March but not this year. The hosta are just now starting to put up their noses. There are lovely fat buds on the Star Magnolia which show no sign of opening.
The best thing about where we live, as far as I’m concerned, is the early spring and so I am a little cranky. Of course, this is nonsense. There are far more important things to be cranky about. The economy, for example. And the fact that the Mathematician has been in England for almost three weeks, party for work and partly to see his parents. He’ll be back on Friday. I like having the house to myself for a while, but now I’m ready for him to come home. And not just because I miss his mug, or because he takes out the trash or knows how to give the cat her medicine without getting clawed. I miss him because I haven’t been able to write. Maxine rages about this, but still no luck. Once he’s home I should be able to buckle down. Until then I’m busy reading history and searching out primary material, which is not easy from my study in the Pacific Northwest.
Digital technology has made many things possible, but not everything. I need to spend a week in the Manhattan archives and libraries and the historical society. April would be perfect, as the heat hasn’t set in and things are pleasant. But there Manhattan is all the way on the other side of the continent, and here am I, looking up flights and hotel rates and feeling ever gloomier about the possibility.
I am about to do a phone interview with Fresh Fiction about the trade paper release of Pajama Girls. I’ll let you know when it shows up on their website.
Now I’ll go away and when I come back, I’ll be cheerful. That’s my intent.