My knees ache. Either I’ve been sitting too long or there’s a storm coming. Perhaps the pain’s less something predictive and more something psychosomatic, my affinity for cowboy sky watching informing my neurology such that knowing snow’s on the way breeds interstitial agony across both knees. I like that better than getting old. I wholeheartedly refuse that.
I’m looking forward to the snow. We’ve had none worth mentioning in more than a year. As a child I’d hope for storms after storms, renewing the landscape every week or so, making a casual walk into the exploration of alien terrain. Even in the few decades I’ve been sapient the temperatures have changed. Now I compromise with the fates and ask just for one blizzard per year. One week or weekend where everything shuts down. Where the baffle of snow mutes the popular noises of a small city. Where the world turns soft and cold at the same time, soft as a matter of form and cold in a deep chill’s dispassionate theft of limbs and life, the hungry thing in whose cage you’ve left your fingers rest too long. I fill suited to that sort of dangerous comfort. I look forward to that bit of adventure.
I had a piece rejected, so there’s movement on that front. It’s been in and back out again so immediately as to make one question whether the rejection even happened. It’s a good place to be, here, where I am so little invested in any singular submission as to feel nothing at a single rejection. Of course, I’d rather it’d been taken, but if it isn’t to have been, I’m glad the sensed loss is akin to a hair rather than a tooth.
I’ve been offered the job at a certain pay rate. I’ve responded with the suggestion of a slightly higher pay rate. Let’s see what they (the mighty, universal, faceless THEY that working for a company engenders) say. Maybe I’ll get a few extra pennies for the same work. It doesn’t hurt to ask (especially when one is as willing as I to walk away fromt he offer).
I haven’t done much of my own writing. I’m getting into franchise father (Fight Club) or deadbeat dad territory. I’m having fun creating the stories but I don’t want to stick around to finish them. I’ve got at least three short stories in dire need of hard edits, all which I’d like to finish before february marks the return to Life in a Glass House. Two months of short stories is as much time as I can really justify for cleansing my palette. Any more delay is, at this point, just procrastination. All the more so if I don’t manage to finish any of those short stories. I don’t know how much spare mental change I’ll have for side projects while I’m working through the novel and freelance editing.
If the snow comes my hermitage will seem justified. That extra layer of guilt will slough off for a few days and I’ll be better able to enact the great get done. Perhaps I’ll finish those short stories. Maybe I’ll start in on my novel a couple of weeks early. Maybe I’ll just take a walk through the quietly humming tundra with nothing on my mind but the sound and the peaceful emptiness it breeds.