A Grayish Misty Weekend

It was a cold and misty weekend here in Oklahoma. It never really rained. Just persistently misted, the skies overcast and gray.

I sat on the couch with the pupsters and enjoyed my Christmas tree lights. 

Hard to believe, but in a week Christmas will be here. My daughter will again bring me an afternoon meal, so there's no need for me to cook.

I started "Midnight At The Bright Ideas Bookstore" Saturday night and read much of it before my eyelids grew too heavy to continue. 

I got completely immersed in the story line. 

If I'd been able to stay awake, I might have read the entire book in one sitting.

This is the second book in a row I've read by debut authors. 

I always wonder what compel first time novelists to choose their story premise. 

Ideas come and go with writers, but I imagine that first novel has to be pushed forth with grit and determination. A story must spark and ignite. Characters have to take on a life of their own. 

What takes a story from a thought to an entire evolution of complexities?

This book in particular has lots of twists and turns and a clever plot, and truly started off with a bang. So I look forward to reading more from this particular writer.

"All words are masks, and the lovelier they are, the more they are meant to conceal." - Steven Millhauser, "August Eschenburg" 

A cup of decaf tastes particularly good on misty gray mornings, I think. It warms the tummy and the soul and is a good way to start the day.

I have both the blinds and the shade down in the living room, because these apartments have no insulation and the windows are quite thin. 

But still I see the shadows of the many birds out front flying by the window. A huge gaggle of them. Flitting here and there around the bushes out front. Pecking in the gutters. Chirping loudly.

Then I look toward the patio, which seems a bit empty without the many blooms I had just a few weeks ago. I tell myself: Spring will be here before I know it.

By March I'll be wandering around out there, looking for even the tiniest bit of green emerging. It always excites me, that first glimpse of lemon balm or hosta or sedum. 

Oh, what would I do if I couldn't sink my fingers into the dirt? 

I find such joy puttering out on the patio and planting seeds and seedlings and watching them grow.

I imagine it's much like novelists planting a seed, and the seed grows and puts out roots and the story develops. 

A plot is much like a puzzle. It's just a method of knowing how to fit the pieces and smooth them into place.