It’s a pandemic, not a writing retreat. — Everyone on Writing Twitter
And true enough, but despite all that, I managed to get words down, and the words are good words. For all my despair over not doing enough, I look back and see what I have accomplished.
* More than 70,000 words on the new novel, which I started in January or February of 2020. And that means I am on track to complete the novel in a year.
* A new short story in the Port Saint Frey-verse.
* A spec pilot script — completed.
* A different spec pilot script — treatment.
I have also increased my reading, and have made good use of the public library app Libby. This was part of my plan for 2020 — by supporting public amenities I am contributing to the overall health of the community.
I looked back at other Christmas posts I’ve made over the life of this blog. A prescient one was this one, when I came down with strep before the holidays in 2015. And I’m pretty sure how I got that case of strep — it was the annual holiday singalong in Austin. That year was in the rotunda of the Blanton Museum. Several hundred Austinites, singing Christmas carols with Craig Hella Johnson of Conspirare. Damn.
Strep: Watch me take out Austin before Christmas.
COVID-19: Hold my beer.
In looking back at my Christmas posts, I sense a theme — renewal certainly, and also a certain harriedness, and sadness. In this post, I write about being on the cusp of a great change while returning to my hometown, even my mother’s kitchen table, and preparing for the next stage of my career. It’s also a post about losing a dear friend, and the sadness of that loss.
I would be remiss if I didn’t leave you with my usual almost annual Christmas in Aeritan excerpt from The Crow God’s Girl. It’s December 24, so remember, you can always get the Gordath Wood series from sfgateway for your friends who love horses and who dream of riding into the forest and entering another world. Books are the ultimate portal, aren’t they?
Happy Holidays! Light a candle or a bonfire so the sun will come back.