Other things have been taking priority over writing during the past week or so–fall cleaning, no school for the kids the past 3 days (teacher workday, parent-teacher conferences, election day), Halloween costume-making, voting, constructing a dollhouse out of foam core and fancy papers because the kids are home, baking breads & biscotti and pumpkin-y things, garden clean-up . . . you know, the usual. Seems like the more time I take off from writing, the more I become aware of other things out there I could/should be doing.
For instance, as I poke my head out from under a pile of books and stories-in-progress, I recall that I own a 110-year-old farmhouse. Leafy gutters. Attic starlings. Wasp nests. Dead light bulbs. Dead batteries; can’t tell the time by the clocks.
I’ve been told we’re to drain our water heater each fall to prevent mineral deposits, inspect the vinyl siding before winter; there are lists of things good homeowners do in autumn.
Just thinking of it makes me want to hunker back down into my books.
Which might be a good thing, since only a month remains of my second semester. Four books to read. Forty pages to write.
Outside the passing trucks and cars splashing past remind me that it’s raining. It’s November, and I’ve got a certain melancholy song stuck in my head.