storyfires

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...

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!