Aha!

[pameladean]

Three hundred words written; salmon baked with onions and garlic and ginger and soy sauce and olive oil, also baked sweet potatoes and steamed broccoli, for dinner; a nice visit with my mother; Toliman cossetted; more laundry done; and it is only a quarter to nine. I forgot to go for my walk, however. And it was such a nice warm day, bitter east wind or not.

The words are arriving in a disconcertingly polished state; I suppose the back of my head, not very reliable over the long run, has decided to wake up and do a spot of work. Long may it wave.

Eric called when I was actually home, too, and I feel much much happier for a conversation. He sounds beautifully relaxed, which after all is the point of a vacation.

A year ago he was in Minneapolis and we had exchanged email but had not actually seen one another yet. We would actually meet in person for the first time in about eleven years at the Minn-Stf New Year's Eve party.

Twenty years ago, David and I were on the eve of our wedding. We went with Will and Emma to Steven and Reen Brust's house to have a splendid dinner and to discuss whether the six of us might manage to put together some kind of combined household that would not drive any of us crazy. (Answer: No.) There had been a tremendous blizzard not long before, so tremendous that my great-aunts and second cousin and family had cancelled their plans to attend the wedding. The moon was near full and glittered on the heaped snow.

My first novel was at Ace, but it had not yet been bought.

I think I should write faster.

Pamela

Comments

[pameladean]

I don't ordinarily think of it that way either, but, well, I'll be fifty soon, and it is almost an even twenty years since my first novel sold. I don't have an infinite amount of time, though I suppose perhaps I could do worse than write as if I did. I don't know.

Pamela