Here is Potato with the latest New Yorker, giving her opinion of the literary establishment. Unlike me, she and her sister consume magazines starting at the corners, leaving frilled and bitten edges like lettuce.
I incorporated my beta readers’ comments into book two. This has been a hard last bit. Snow stayed, hard-crusted on the ground—we still have icebergs of it dotted across my backyard. Winter also stayed, with short days, and Daylight Savings was just an insult. I am prone to seasonal affective depression, but usually not so bad as this year.
I used my tools, called on my gods, but still I spent a chunk of some days reviewing my old inventory of sorrow and pain. I suppose if I were happy all the time I’d be bored… right?
But now it is spring, a few days ahead of the equinox. As I write, the sun is rising.