Halfway–let us face the truth– through the summer, and time to take a tally.
I’ve been to two beaches.
I’ve eaten the most delicious and enormous (approximately the size of my head) artichoke ever.
Our beloved Habibi has survived a serious illness, thanks to some wonderful caring vets (and a whole truckload of money).
With great trepidation, I shared an ARC of “Moonpenny Island” with my friend Mary Norris, who is a superb copyeditor at The New Yorker, and she found only one minuscule mistake (which was my misspelling of minuscule). Bonus–she loved the book!
I’ve finished a draft of my new middle grade, and gotten a start on my new CODY.
I’ve had to leave two beaches.
Deer devoured my beefsteak tomatoes.
I discovered that buying a Mother of the Bride Dress is another level of hell.
A broken pipe gave us a new slant on the phrase “flash flood”. (More truckloads of money).
Last winter was so terrible, my usually trustworthy imagination failed me. I couldn’t call up summer, not a single image or scent or taste of it. Yet here it is, the phlox perfuming the air, my wet bathing suit draped over the porch railing, my neighbors ambling by with their happy dogs, the taste of peaches on my tongue. I can still easily imagine winter, though, which is all the more reason to head for the garden right now.