Into the Fire

Pen in hand. Legal pad. Chair on lawn. Finally: warm sun and air.

. . .

My first novel is a saga in length but covers only one race meet in actual story time. A mostly day-by-day account of the goings on at a middle echelon racetrack with well over 65 characters wrapped up with a Glossary of Terms (for non-racetrackers) on page 744 with virtually no white on the type-filled pages. Definitely could have been told in less, but . . . Anyway, it was all hand written.
No computer in our home at the time, and typing without the efficiency of the marvelous correction capabilities of a keyboard is one of the most frustrating of all possible exercises—similar to bowling and golf.

. . .

I’m wondering now if not getting back to book number eight has slipped into lethargy or the simple “I’m outa practice” mode. Could be. Not sure. Guess I should open it up and check it out because I do miss them, you know? I really do.

. . .

My TBR (To Be Read) pile is ridiculous. It’s like when it got down to one or two books, I completely panicked and went on a buying rampage and then loaded up on CFBA books after trying to cut back. Feeding the addiction to fiction. Good grief.

. . .

Watching a jet etching white contrails in a horizontal line across a cornflower bluescape. Silent as the breeze. Fast and out of sight. The evidence of its journey fading, blending into blue. The long lines dividing the endless sky.

. . .

Pen in hand. Legal pad. Chair on lawn. Warm sun and air. Sunburn. Yeah. Finally.

. . .

Blessed.

Father, every good and perfect gift is from you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.