Oh, and the magic eight ball in my stocking, when asked about novel publication this year, replied: it is certain. Superstitious bugger, aren't I? Writers refuel our tank of dreams from every passing station, it seems.
For me, breaking in the new pjs and reorganizing my writing space seems to be the way of it each year. I'm juggling two novels, so the inspiration chotchkes are a muddled signal to my subconscious. More often, they shout "clutter!" than "write me!" And thanks to one of my sweet crit partners, this phone booth of awesomeness will not be relegated to the ornament box come January.The tule beneath it is my feeble attempt to capture the white Christmases of my childhood. Sure, it makes the tree look like a cheap bridesmaid, but at night, when I squint just so, it could pass for snow.
Both kings seem to think so, too.
I wish everyone a fruitful start to the new year, filled with certain 8-ball messages, happy memories and a comfy pair of pjs.