Loving the weather now

This week has been great. Highs in the upper 80s to low 90s, heat index just over 100, little to no wind, except during thunder storms. And best of all, the novel is back on track and vacation is next week.

No more spring!

The two-year anniversary of the start of my latest attempt to write a novel has come and gone and I really haven't made any progress. I've thought about it some, but that doesn't really count. I can't remember the last time I added something substantial to it. So I'm going to complain about something else, something I have no control over, but that won't stop me from complaining about it: The weather.

On average this spring, and I think every spring, temperatures run at least 10 degrees below normal. And it's windy. There's the occasional tease of a sunny, 80-degree day, and then it's right back to a stretch of 50s, cloudy and windy. I'm tired of spring. In fact, I was tired of spring on March 21. If I had any control of the seasons, there would only be three of them: summer, fall and winter.

Summer would last five months: five months of 90-degree days and 70-degree nights, a good dose of humidity and an occasional light breeze, no wind, except for during thunderstorms. But no tornados or hurricanes.

Fall would last four months and would feature daytime highs in the 70s, nights in the 50s and less humidity. The perfect conditions for keeping the windows open.

Then three months of real winter, or nine weeks to be more exact. Nine weeks of knee-deep snow, logs on the fireplace and lots of hot chocolate. The last three weeks of winter would make up for March, April and May. Three weeks should be long enough for the body to adjust from winter to summer, and for the plants and animals as well. Three weeks of misery; 49 weeks of the stuff I like.

Will I ever get started again?

May 10 will be the two-year anniversary of when I started my latest attempt to write a novel. If all had gone according to fantasy, I would be getting ready for a promotional tour right about now _ to promote my second best seller. Then it would be off to some paradise for a well-deserved month-long vacation, maybe even two months, to rest up and collect my thoughts for best-seller number three. Long gone would be the days of the 9-5 job (really 8-5 with that all-important lunch hour). The only schedule I would keep would be my own, or perhaps that of an editor or two. Dream on. I was hoping the blog would get me motivated to start working on it again. I think the end is in sight, if I could just get going. There's no good reason not to work on it. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece, it just needs to be done. I keep telling myself that and then get right into bemoaning how awful it is. Well, that's all I can stomach for now. I'll probably be writing something very similar next week, unless I actually make some progress before then. How's that for motivation?

JMU86er

Jumpstarting my novel?

It's been a while since I've added anything to my novel, but maybe I have something here to get me started again, I hope. There's certainly opportunity to develop this:

Maybe John attends some function, a fund-raiser. Maybe a charity thing. Maybe he meets a friend or acquaintance who's married but still trying to find the next Mrs. Doe. Does Mrs. Doe know? Most of these people are folks John would have never associated with or who would have never associated with him before he became a best-selling novelist. Showing up with Rebecca surly would put a jolt into some of them. Maybe she's had a run-in with a few of them; maybe reported on a shady deal or two. Of course, the new dress would temper the angst. She would definitely turn some heads. None of them had seen her like this before. Oh geez. What about the friend. He won't be able to keep his eyes off her. He doesn't even know they've been dating. Has it really been that long since they talked. John chuckles at the thought. What if Doe had seen Kate on TV. Would he have made up some excuse to go to KC for the weekend?

JMU86er

The Professor

I am trying to write a novel, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been trying to write one since my early teens, at least. I will turn 41 later this year, so I’ve been at it a while. Not exactly hard at it, though. I’ve taken a few years off here and there. Anyway, one of my weaknesses is describing people. My characters have hair color, skin color, perhaps even eye color. Some are six-foot-three and athletic, whatever that is. Some are fat and some are skinny. They might have an irritating, nasally voice. Women are “nice looking” or “attractive.” Perhaps they look like “poster girls,” or not. But usually that’s it. You get the picture _ or the lack of one. I look at the way published novelists describe their characters _ the way they move, the way they look at something or someone, the way they pick up a glass of milk, or whatever. The similes and metaphors they use. I have no chance. I just don’t see that stuff. At least not until I met “The Professor” last week.

I mentioned earlier I am new in my job and the person I replaced was gracious enough to introduce me to the faculty and staff I will be covering. Of course I’m responsible for covering the Mathematics department, among others, and let’s just say math is another of my weaknesses. I’ll keep you posted.

The Professor _ I’ve already forgotten his name _ teaches in the biology department, I think. Anyway, he had a crooked face, a description I have seen other writers use but had never actually seen in real life. For what it’s worth, the encounter inspired this:

We shake hands and then Dan starts telling the professor about his new job. I notice the professor’s half-eaten microwave dinner sitting on the desk as another topic surfaces. The professor seems in no hurry to get back to it. Obviously, he has enjoyed getting to know Dan over the years and is truly surprised to hear he is leaving. I try to listen in, but the face is such a distraction. Maybe if the beard and mustache had some length to them, I wouldn’t have noticed. But it’s so glaring. The left side of the mustache is at least twice as long as the right, outlining an equally crooked mouth. The words all come from the left side while the right side barely moves. Am I staring? I look at the shelves overloaded with books and wonder if he has read them all, or how many times. One of the shelves is perpendicular (Wow, a math term) to the others, cutting the office almost in half, bisecting it, you might say, and leaving the narrowist of passages from the front to the back. Even I would have to turn sideways to get through it. The professor, while I wouldn’t call him fat, certainly has more of a belly than I. He would make a good Santa Claus if he grew out the beard and mustache _ no artificial whitening required. The nose, maybe a tad on the large size, also seems to be located on the left side of his face. An illusion? His steel-blue eyes don’t seem out of place and there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about his ears. I wonder what’s behind the perpendicular shelf. More books? Another desk? Maybe I’ll find out someday. Right now, it’s time to move on. Another firm handshake, a cordial goodbye.

Well, maybe this will come in handy someday. I’ll work with it a bit.