My grandma says I have a heart of gold, because I bring her Girl Scout Cookies when they aren’t on her shopping list, and carry change in my pocket for the Salvation Army kettle and for the soft-eyed teenagers with pet-rescue collection buckets at intersections on Saturdays. I don’t feel very gold-hearted much of the time, though I do try, I suppose.

I’ve actively resisted coming here for nearly two months, since the last couple posts were so raw, so painful. I still ache for my dear little Louisa, I miss her weight on my back in the middle of the night, the way she’d sleep bolstered against me without fail. It’s grief that’s stirred into the anniversary of my dad’s death, an anniversary that knocked me around in unexpected ways. He would have been on the phone after Hurricane Sandy, making sure I was okay, that grandma was okay. And oh my God, how he would have fucking loved all the fuss around The Hobbit. When I see the movie, I will bring a bit of his ashes with me and try to feel the massive joy he would have felt for the whole thing.

So anyway, what the hell? I say that I avoided my dear old website because the last posts were such a fucking bummer, right? And the first thing I do is dip right on back into the morbid goonery. Chin up, Kit. Things aren’t really all that bad, all things considered.


I celebrated my birthday with a weekend away. A little road trip, a writer’s retreat, and a couple of contemplative days in a quiet bed and breakfast, working on my novel. The change of scene shook me up in a good way, rattled some pesky plot points into place, gave me some good ideas that magically help resolve some of the nebulous things that bothered me about my story. The novel has grown from a NaNoWriMo lark to a kinda-epic Gen X bildungsroman, and there’s just this… thing… that happens when I’m living in that world. It’s scary and satisfying in a way that nothing else is.

A lot of my writing energy goes into that place, but it feels good to be here too. How about I check back in a few days and say hello again. Push the weeping-wound posts back a bit further into history, hm? It’s a deal.


The past couple of weeks have been great for my offline writing. I started a story during NaNoWriMo 2010 (technically I “won,” hooray for me) that has evolved into a thing I can actually call a novel. A work in progress. I work on it in fits and starts, but I’m always thinking about it, which I’m convinced is half the effort of writing the thing. Sometimes I dream up a plot point that resolves an unsatisfying tangle, or a new character shows up, waiting for a part.

I love this process to a ridiculous degree. Being a proposal writer for my Real Job lends itself to a strange, needy malaise… if I can’t get creative, the novel howls for my attention. After a couple of weeks where I felt more like a proposal automaton and less le fancypants artiste de proposals I like to think I am, I vowed that on the July 4th holiday, it would be all about the novel.

So glorious. I camped out on the balcony and despite the heatwave, it was Halloween 1983 all day and into the night, and I hesitated as I was getting ready for bed, mildly twigged at the idea of turning off the lights because some of what I wrote creeped me out that much, or my brain was in a creepy place, and I was trying so hard to get it onto the page. Rereading in the morning light is perhaps even more terrifying, in a different sort of way, but it’s so much easier to edit and rewrite something that’s already there and not just a nebulous cloud of thought… though I have to force myself not to do much if any of that, and hey, finish the damn thing before I rewrite it, which is a phrase I should carve into the back of my hand Harry Potter In Evil Detention style so that I might actually heed it.

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