The red sun rose like a portent this morning.
On the West Coast, California, Oregon, parts of Washington are burning. My country is falling apart.
May cooling rains contain this fire.
And if my country can change this much this fast—maybe it can change this fast for the good.
Another world is possible.
Another book is on the way, possibly as early as Samhain.
I’m finishing the line-edit for the third book in the series today. This part is one of my favorite things about writing, refining line by line: mostly cutting and moving punctuation, sometimes moving words.
The picture of the apples is from a few days ago. A bear came and ate nearly all of them the other morning, climbing through the tree to get them. I’m okay with my neighbors getting most of my apple harvest.
I’ve named the third book The Way to Witch Farm.
I haven’t had a lot to say—what’s to say about the political world, in essays and social media, is being said by other folks.
I’m on the third draft of the next book, which will feature some impassioned Antifa folks and some protests, as well as Hekate and everyone else. In the meantime, this day of the new moon, I watch my apples ripen.
I’m starting week six of my personal pandemic lockdown. For my day job, I’ve been working from home since early March, and I went into full social distancing mode mid-March.
I feel lucky I live in Washington, where the COVID-19 response has been relatively sane. And, honestly, for me as a writer, social distancing hasn’t been as hard as for some of my friends.
I’m an ambivert and thrive on getting a large chunk of time alone. I have to be self-disciplined, or I’d never get any writing done, so after a few days I’m not the person who stays in bed all day. (I’m also lucky my neurochemistry supports me here.) In normal times, the need to write means I have to sit on my social butterfly tendencies. Now, in this new, weird, loose time, it’s easier. Also my editor slipped one of my deadlines. A lot has been slipping lately. That feels good in some ways (I tend to be stressed; it’s good if I can relax and slow down) and bad in others.
The ancient Celts celebrated Samhain as a weeklong holiday, when ghosts walked and no one made war. I figure I’m just outside the orb of Samhain now—late harvest, time to cull the herds, though around here we only get the occasional mouse.
In the foothills of the Cascades, outside Seattle, we’re having the snowiest February of the last fifty years. I’ve been able to do my dayjob from home. I’m very lucky for that.
I was too busy gawking at the moon last night to take a photo. A picture of a recent reading for personal guidance will have to do.
Last night, I finished a draft of the second book of the septet, weighing in at about 78,500 words. I wrote 9,600 words just Saturday through Monday!