Still Reading ....

My friend's novel in manuscript, it's got so much to do with me, as much to do with me as with him I'm sure. There are some really profound things in it, things that stop me. Here's one: "I came to understand that novelists are strictly observers. At first I struggled against it, agonized over it. And then ... I accepted it. I'm fascinated by life, just not terribly involved in it."

Well --- wow!

That's how I used to feel. Not anymore. I'm completely involved in it, 100%. Not just observing anymore but actively participating. I've said before that I lived vicariously through my characters because they lived much more interesting lives than I did, loved more, grieved more, felt more. They were a substitute for the real thing. Now, I have the real thing. And maybe that's why the fire in the belly is gone. I no longer need the substitutions.

It's not that it isn't something I haven't already figured out, it's just that my friend put it so succinctly. And there's more. No wonder I'm loving this book, can hardly put it down. It's terribly disturbing to me that it hasn't been able to find a home. Has the reading public become so shallow?

My SO dispatched the damned armadillo that's been wrecking havoc on the yard. It's not in my nature to feel gleeful when any creature dies, but this one had done so much damage and spoiled so much hard labor, I quickly buried any pang of regret I felt about its demise. Good riddance! That's one thing about living in the country. You have to make decisions, life or death ones, play God.

Onward ....