I’ve been mulling over whether now’s the time to grab onto the golden ring of non-fiction writing and I think I’m not going to. The thing is this: I don’t really like it that much. I obviously don’t dislike it. And I look forward to finding other weird things to tell people about.
And maybe I’ll never be a really great fiction writer.
But that’s where my heart is. And since I’m never going to be massively successful at either, why not stick with the one I like best?
I’m, still, a bag of nerves. I’m trying to keep from emailing and demanding updates on The Wolf’s Bane ever 15 minutes.
Our front porch kind of sucks because it doesn’t have a roof. It’s more, in fairness, like a small front patio. So, you can’t really sit out on it without being blinded by the afternoon sun. I’m sure when the 50 year old hackberry was full sized, this was less noticeable, but it’s pretty unfortunate now.
So, I’m asking every member of my family to go in on a porch swing with an awning as a birthday present for me. They haven’t said whether they’re willing to do this, but there have been secretive phone calls.
I’m crossing my fingers. Because, if we ever have nice weather again, I’m kind of dreaming of sitting on my front porch, making afghans and watching the world go by.