Outside my window lies a pristine blanket of white.  I’ve checked the calendar to be sure: Yes, it’s April.  Mid April, in fact.  A seasonal analogy for the process of writing this novel – like winter, it will appear to end, and then return when least expected, interfering with the process of new growth and forward motion.  Still pretty though, if you look at it with your eyes sort of crossed and try not to focus on a sense of time.

Perception is everything, isn’t it?  A layer of snow like this in October, and the kids would be shouting their delight.  I’d be playing Christmas tunes and lighting candles.  Instead, all of that beauty out my window this morning got nothing but a look of disgust from me. The intrepid teenager who had to be forced to wear a jacket in the winter ventured out to feed the dog shrunk into a jacket and hood like he was being thrust into a Siberian blizzard.

“Nothing is either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,”   As Mr. Shakespeare profoundly pointed out. True, isn’t it?  Therefore, I am changing my thinking.  I have, at least temporarily, accepted reality.  I am no longer in the process of submitting a finished manuscript; I am revising, recreating, rethinking, rewriting.  Which is fine.  If I can keep my mind out of the ‘I should be done by now’ hamster wheel, the process is infinitely more pleasant than submitting and getting rejection letters.  A giant puzzle: if I move this here, and shift that there, can I add another piece in right here?  There is fear that I will ruin the whole thing by messing around in it, of course, but I can live with that.

There will be other books, and most certainly other drafts of this one.