I just couldn’t wait any more. And I don’t know exactly how it will go. This afternoon, I worked on fleshing out a spot I knew was weak, and giving myself some Muddy Waters material to stick in to the Devil’s Weekend. I need to rework the opening paragraphs, which I intended to also get to today, but I didn’t, or haven’t yet, anyway.
One of the things I really hope readers wrestle with as they read the book is how you decide what’s plausible. Okay, you believe in God. You believe in angels, the Devil. Demons. Can demons possess people? Can other spirits possess people? Can a person turn into something not a person? Just where is the line over which you’re not willing to go?
Anyway, I’m happy to be back into it.
I hope you guys can get a good look at the pure, almost drunken, pleasure on her face. Her eyes are half shut, her other bones are near here, her legs sprawled out behind her, and her ears on high alert for any cats that might come too near the revelry.
Otherwise, there’s nothing else on the planet that matters. Just her and her bones.
She’s eleven this year. Her life expectancy is 12-14. I try not to think about it, but I think about it pretty regularly anyway. Does she need another bone when she’s not finished with the two she has? Well, she’s not going to live forever. Might as well.
Should I give her the rest of the sweet & sour chicken? It’s probably not good for her, but she’s eleven. Might as well.
What dog needs a burger from McDonald’s when I get a hot cocoa? Not a dog in my car, but I do it anyway, because she likes them and, at this point, it’s not like it’s going to prematurely shorten her life.
Well, shoot, this has turned into a depressing post. But I also like to think that having a bunch of possibly human-sized bones, visibly gnawed on, laying around the house is a good deterrent to burglars. And, possibly, ne’re-do-well cows.