That’s right, it’s another blog.
And what’s this one intended to focus on? Well, focus is a word I’ve always had trouble with. It’s just not easy to focus when both your eyes are nearsighted, but one’s only a little short of the standard while the other one can’t see anything more than a palm’s length away clearly. So when my glasses are off, nothing is ever perfectly clear, unless I bring it to within half an inch of my more nearsighted eye, and that doesn’t work for things that are very big or very dangerous or very far away, which covers a lot of the universe.
Anyway, this is intended to be a blog mostly about the process of fiction writing, and reading. Also, it’s a way to discipline myself to write something Every. Blessed. Day. no matter how much else is going on. But expect digressions.
Starting here. It’s more or less spring here in New Jersey…cold and wet and cloudy and raw, but getting greener by the day. These plants are in a hurry. They put up with hunkering down and enduring, like the rest of us, through half of December and then January and then February and probably about sixteen weeks of March, and they’ve had enough. Consider my tulips. Every year they send up flower buds that have every intention of being thoroughly tuliplike. The flower stalks get taller and taller and the buds get bigger and bigger and start to separate into petals – and then the squirrels eat them. Every year.
Anyhow, this year one tulip was clearly fed up. It wasn’t waiting for anybody. It wasn’t even waiting to push a couple of dead leaves aside when it grew up to the surface again. Nope. It just grew right through them and carried the leaves – willow oak, maple, pin oak – along.
Don’t mess with tulips, okay?