have been a bit grumpy, dear readers

I feel the need to apologize to anyone who comes across this blog--I haven't been sleeping well since my friend Harvey died, and still have to do all the usual life-things, including going to my dance classes and be a mom to the kids and a partner to Mr. Strega. Thus, if my tone seems a bit more grumpy than usual (often I will start moaning about the literary world and why it is so tardy about paying me homage), I do apologize. I realize this process (writing and publishing) is going to take whatever time it takes. I don't even write for recognition, really--I have volumes of journals, for example, that I hope never see any form of publication. The only real interesting thing about my journals is that I write most of my journal entries these days with a dip pen (made of glass--it's really rather a neat pen) and various colors of bottled ink, in my office at home. It's sort of a private weirdness, and maybe a little affected, but there's something nice about it (I mostly write like this in my office)--plus, bottled ink has gorgeous color. Here's my VERY FAVORITE website for pens, ink, etc.--I have bought nothing from them yet, but I have an idea where I'm going to spend some money eventually--http://www.pendemonium.com. Pendemonium even has invisible ink!

Anway, out of fear that I'm going to "lazy" my entire life away if I'm not careful, I made myself to write today--just took a chapter of the book that needs revising, took my falling-apart notebook (and not notebook computer, either--this is a real spiral notebook), and went to the Santa Cruz Borders to work. I realize that Borders is considered the Evil Empire in Santa Cruz, but it's fairly quiet and sells large, cheap cups of coffee (the other two places I like to write are Coffee Cat in Scotts Valley and The White Raven in Felton).
So, I did start working on another chapter. Also--HURRAH--after over two years, I started a poem last night for Harvey. I guess the sad part about is that Harvey was so reassuring to me that my poetry would come back, that it was just "waiting in my unconscious" and would come out at the right time. I wish the "right time" hadn't been the death of a person who was my friend and was so unfailingly loving and kind to me--but his loss brought me a gift.

It's now freezing in my house, the fire is out, and I am going to go to bed and get warm!