Squirrel among the Pigeon(s)

cute baby animals - Acting Like Animals: Don't Mind Me...

I finally finished my first draft readthrough of Pigeon . . . right up to the climactic scene I haven’t written yet.

The urge is strong to fiddle around until everything’s perfect before I go on.   I mean, I have a good idea of where the characters want to go and how to tie it all tog—look!   I must fix all the quotation marks Squirrel!

But I’m just self-aware enough to know that I can fiddle until the end of time with this or that or the other unless I deliberately knock it off.

So I’m not going to worry about my notes right now.

Instead, I’m going to plunge into the next new scene starting tonight and not stopping to spot the squirrels until it’s over—my own, personal Nano.

This includes one additional chapter about a third of the way in, as my male MC disappears off-screen in a cold rage, and while he says he’s going for a run—in Las Vegas, at night—and mentions it the next morning, I’m pretty sure that’s not all that happened.

It may end up in the character folder, but frankly, I’m curious.  ‘Sides, we can’t have the man hanging out at craft services doing nothing—it’s not cost-effective.



HobNobbing with the Duchess

I dragged myself home today after work, schlepped  a cello, an A-minus diorama, and a damp bag full of swimming stuff into the kitchen . . . and saw a package on the kitchen table.  For me.

The moment I saw the Royal Mail sticker, I knew. One might say I went completely kookoopants:

HobNobs, for those of you who haven’t experienced them yet, are insanely good English biscuits that aren’t available in my neck of the woods, unless I want to take a verrrry long drive to the nearest import grocery.  I’m mentioned this once or twice—or perhaps at every possible opportunity—and Her Grace Downith sent me some completely out of the blue, accompanied by an absolutely perfect poem by John Betjeman:

She, such a very ordinary little woman;
He, such a thumping crook;
But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels
In the teashop’s ingle-nook.

The HobNobs are exactly as good as I remember—sweet and slightly nutty and crumbly and milk-chocolately and ummm . . .

But receiving a surprise from a friend is even better.

Thanks, Downith!