3x for the holy etc.
A member of my household woke me up this morning to tell me that she thinks the kitchen, which we just painted last night, looks like LL Bean. Looking at it over my tea, I don't think this, not really. The walls are a pleasant cottage green and it's true, our cabinets and all the wood is dark like, well, like a log cabin. And while I never would have said it looked like LL Bean, now that the detail has been introduced, I can hardly argue against such specifics.
I am delighted that September has brought cool mornings as quickly as though someone turned off the summer heat with a switch. I could live perpetually in fall, with crisp air and turning leaves and scarves. Scarves! It's actually too early for anything but a good pair of jeans and flip-flops, but I can feel the inexorable frost, hot coffee and pies baked with nutmeg and cinnamon, and the first time you have to go back inside to get your jacket.
I'm writing this because I'm avoiding writing something else: I am close to finishing a draft, a real draft, not the pre-draft-draft randomness that is the consequence of my bizarre editing process, and I'm afraid I'm going to mess it up. There's a thin line between knowing you have it all figured out and thinking you have it all figured out only to discover a problem of epic proportions lurking under your dialog. I don't want to get too excited that I'm almost done only to discover that the only thing I'm done with is actually uncovering all the plot holes. I'm giving myself a few more hours of narrative identify crisis before I pick up and move on to rehanging the curtains and pictures and getting the paint smudges off the ceiling of my kitchen. Or I guess I could always go to LL Bean, since they are apparently one and the same.
I am delighted that September has brought cool mornings as quickly as though someone turned off the summer heat with a switch. I could live perpetually in fall, with crisp air and turning leaves and scarves. Scarves! It's actually too early for anything but a good pair of jeans and flip-flops, but I can feel the inexorable frost, hot coffee and pies baked with nutmeg and cinnamon, and the first time you have to go back inside to get your jacket.
I'm writing this because I'm avoiding writing something else: I am close to finishing a draft, a real draft, not the pre-draft-draft randomness that is the consequence of my bizarre editing process, and I'm afraid I'm going to mess it up. There's a thin line between knowing you have it all figured out and thinking you have it all figured out only to discover a problem of epic proportions lurking under your dialog. I don't want to get too excited that I'm almost done only to discover that the only thing I'm done with is actually uncovering all the plot holes. I'm giving myself a few more hours of narrative identify crisis before I pick up and move on to rehanging the curtains and pictures and getting the paint smudges off the ceiling of my kitchen. Or I guess I could always go to LL Bean, since they are apparently one and the same.