On the range.

It’s odd being in Flagstaff.  I’m here but not here.  The social scene hasn’t much changed (although it’s about to, what with Rich, Laura and Matt all taking off), and I fall right back into old patterns, some positive, some negative.  I’m drinking again but I’ve cut way back; no more weekend hangovers (not since I’ve been home, anyway).  Bits of wine here and there, the occasional whiskey with grandma, Matt’s homebrew.  The novel moves painfully slowly, which is infuriating, frustrating and predictable.  I took an excellent workshop with Dinty Moore and produced a Brevity-style 500 word nonfic, and I’m revising up a play for this year’s Playwriting Showcase, so it’s not like I’m not writing.  It’s just not what I thought I’d be writing.

In other news, editing is editing is editing.  The Comma Wars are a go-go, of course, but they’ve been less vicious than usual, which I’m grateful for.  I hope the truce continues.  And I hope I get a book soon, because I’ll get a lot more novel-ing done if my boss will let me go outhouse on the walk-in book.

I scarcely see Sacha at all, which I feel guilty about.  Matt’s moving out of his apartment in a week (to save money for Chicago), so I’ve been completely focused on making that happen, at the expense of the novel, and pretty much everyone else friend-wise.  And Laura leaves in nine days for Kansas City, so I feel an extra-bad friend on all counts.

Blogpost devolve.  But I’m happy and hunkered down, and so long as I can manage to not spend money and keep tapping away at the novel, I’ll be pleased with the summer’s fruits.

Strawberries!

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