I know I’ve been a little neglectful lately and I hope you’ll bear with me.
It’s been a frenetic entry to Fall. Probably because I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself to get this novel in decent shape by end of year.
Not helped by the realization that we’ve just been dropped swirling into that holiday vortex that hurtles us through months like Doctor Who’s tardis: …Whoa there went Labor Day…ah yes, Columbus Day––oh, it’s passed?…what, Halloween already? Seriously, wait, Thanksgiving..? I can’t believe it’s Christmas…till the words of John Lennon singing another year over and what have you done shove us towards the cooking sherry…
Okay, calm down. The leaves have just begun to rustle on the trees but haven’t detached themselves yet. We’re good. Breathe…
So the odd little update to the ritual of Something old, Something new, Something borrowed, Something blue that I experienced this weekend hit home…
I’d been reading a quiet book by an Irish author, Jennifer Johnston, that I had been curious about. Bohemian-style, I shoved the book in my coat pocket on the way out of a café Friday night and hurried home through Storm Joaquin’s relentless rain. I made pitstops at a dry cleaners and a wine shop on the way.
Later that night I wanted to read my book and it was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t start another book not till I found out whether they would send the boy away or not…
I couldn’t understand where it had disappeared to. I read Vogue instead.
The next morning I retraced my steps from the previous night––quite futilely, I was sure, but just to give myself peace of mind. Trudging and scouring the slick sidewalks, I couldn’t believe it…
My book! (No, folks, I did not put my book on a leash. The white line is paint dripped on sidewalk..)
The bookmark was still marking my page. And for all Joaquin’s raging (and raging East Village partiers stampeding from bar to bar) I’ve had books that fell in the bathtub come off worse than this.
Fabulous. I returned home at a triumphant clip.
That afternoon, I decided, was the perfect time to take this little plaid jacket that I’d found earlier in the summer out for a promenade. Heading out the door, I put my hands in the pockets and extracted a dainty pair of cornflower blue leather gloves. They had obviously been forgotten about by the store owner.
Surely these events were gentle nudges that I should slide my hands in my pockets more often and just amble through Autumn.
Don’t you think..?
If you’re ready to tuck in for some cozy reading on these longer nights then my first novel Silk for the Feed Dogs is available here