weeding

I am amazed at the amount of dashes I used to use when I was first writing this book. They're everywhere, like mushrooms after a rain. Every time I think I have eliminated them all, I find more. What was I thinking? Well, I'd never really written prose before.

Mr. Strega is out putting burlap upon a hillside (that's what we do for fun in these here mountains) and I am taking advantage of a quiet house to get my fifty pages out to the agent today (actually, I'm taking a break now). With all the kidlets off of school and Prada (eldest daughter nickname) home from college, the house is, to say the least, just a teeny bit chaotic when everyone is here. I hung stockings over the fireplace at Christmas and was a bit amazed at the fuzzy, bright red, proof positive of how many people are associated with my household (Faustus, our dog, and our three cats also have stockings, courtesy of my younger daughter). Still, the full life is something I love. I'm determined to make a serious dent in the book during the next two weeks, even if I have to sit at the upstairs computer and direct the household as I work.

Weirdly, most of the household seems content when I am working in the middle of things upstairs and let me work, but they are strangely attracted to my office when I work in there--last night I had Mr. Strega asleep on the pile of pillows I have on the office floor (he just came in to say hello, but had snacked on turkey and went out like a light); then our big dog Faustus came in and fell asleep. Occasionally, I've had Faustus, three cats, and Mr. Strega in there, with kids popping in and out--in a space the size of a good walk-in closet. I have a star-shaped light from Ikea next to the door (now, tell me I'm not egotistical--I just realized the darn thing is a STAR) which, when turned on, is an indication that Ms. Strega does not wish to be disturbed.

By the way, I noticed that a lot of folks did homemade gifts this year. Prada made KILLER fudge; my hairdresser sent me a crocheted snowflake ornament. I gave Mr. Strega "hug coupons" (though I did buy him stuff, too). My mother always declared the giving of food and homemade things as holiday gifts "cheap," though oddly, she sent out about a million tins of homemade Christmas cookies and fruitcake to relatives. Still, love was shown in my family of origin through money, so that was her reality (my parents grew up in the Depression, so I try to remember that when considering them).

Back to those fifty pages. By the way, it's always amazing to me how many incarnations of meals a lone turkey can go through. Last night's meal was the whole yam-turkey-stuffing microwaved thing (I stood accused of skimming marshmallows from the yams and eating them, but I declare I was not guilty). Tonight is hot open-faced turkey sandwiches. Tomorrow, the carcass (made into turkey soup). What next?