I love summer. I still have a day job. The dishes still need washing. The laundry never stops, and yet, somehow, summer feels—looser.
I get more writing done. I have big plans. Some of those plans even come to fruition.
I have not loved the last two weeks—a heat wave tends to slow things down a bit, doesn’t it?—but now that the Inferno has passed us by for now, all I want to do is go give summer a big fat kiss.
For me, that means reading a stack of books as tall as the house, hanging out on my back porch with a glass of wine, and, most of all, it means getting some writing done.
Technically I probably get more writing done in the winter, when I’m stuck inside anyway. But the beginning of summer, to me, has always felt like the starter gun for a new project.
Or maybe that’s just the Olympics I’m thinking of.
(I also love the Olympics. I can get ridiculously caught up in sports I don’t actually care about. I’m looking at you, Super G. Don’t get comfortable, Half-Pipe.)
This week, I’m finishing book #2. Which is actually book #1. It used to be called something, and then something else. But now I don’t like either of those titles, so it’s Book #2, Which Is Really Book #1.
Next week, I start Book #3. Thank you, summer, for coming at the perfect time.