Imagination doesn't just mean making things up. It means thinking things through, solving [problems] or hoping to do so, and being just distant enough to be able to laugh at things that are normally painful. [Some people] would call this escapism, but they would be be entirely wrong. I would call fantasy the most serious, and the most useful branch of writing there is.
--Diana Wynne Jones

Friday, February 8, 2013

O, how I (ahem) love thee, Nameless One; let me count the ways

It's the un-namable month.

That time of the year.

Toxic air.

My lovely city: worst air in the nation. No, that's not a snow cloud.
Dirty, left-over snow.

Cheesy movies.

Sleezy underwear and barf colors in all the stores.

Death and sickness.




The good news:

Uh, let's see.

I'm writing. Yes, making progress on this book. At last. I mean, I don't dare go outside for fear I'll pass out from lack of oxygen, so might as well sit around with the lap-top, right?

And, ok, next week Megan Whalen Turner is braving the cloud and coming to the Life, the Universe, and Everything conference in Provo. I signed up for an LTUE pitch session with a New York Agent. Maybe I'll get the spot. Maybe not. First come, first pitch, and I signed up late. But still get to hear MW Turner impart her wisdom. Feeling cheerier already.

And oh, yeah (!): leaving the poisonous air for Newport, CA soon for my son's wedding. :) Apparently, even L.A.'s air isn't as bad as almost any air anywhere in my state.


Sunshine.

Joyfulness.

Celebration.

Sea breeze.




And then when we get back, February will be almost over. March winds blowing in, and none too soon. So long, hairy-scary-February. Maybe we will survive you unscathed.


Monday, February 4, 2013

Death, Be Not Proud


Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou are slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

                                     --John Donne





For Parker.


Love you, Allreds!

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