At just past midnight on August 1st, summer quietly packed its bags and fled the state. We had a nice summer, especially compared to last year (record-setting rainy spell, not-FTW), but now it is done. Over. Finito.
It's been raining and windy, with warnings of gusts up to 80 mph. As I write this I'm watching our mature may trees being tossed by the wind, and hearing them scraping against the second story deck. Inside, the ficus looks peeved.
The rumors about Alaskans hibernating aren't untrue. It's time to retreat. To books, both reading and writing. To art, little crafts and attempts at projects far beyond my talent and expertise. I will clean obsessively. (When trapped in a small space, it's best if you maximize that space by storing every mobile item and removing every room-taking-up mote of dust.)
I will spend hours at the computer, engineering elaborate vacations (to destinations exotic, warm or both) that I will never take. That's actually how my novella releasing in January from Carina Press came about. I'd written a few scenes for my own amusement, then closed the file. Winter arrived on cold, hard feet, and I wanted to go to Hawaii. I wanted sweet, humid air and warm, lapping waves. My main character decided that sounded pretty damn good. Only, where all I had to do was buy a plane ticket, she had to escape bombs, fangs, and a brewing street war.
She might not be able to make the perfect escape, but she'll take you for a hell of a ride.
Don't Bite the Messenger - Carina Press - 1.16.12