Set to work early this morning, but was forced to go at the keyboard in measured steps after smashing the hell out of my left middle finger last night in a storm window. Freud would probably have said my subconscious didn’t want to get back to writing after so many days off. I don’t know. Maybe that’s true. I felt as if I’d been champing at the bit, but he’s the genius, not me. Anyway, got some revision work in, but the process was slow-going. Tentative, I guess you’d say.
Quit writing just before noon and went off on a hunt for some dead trees to spike in the ground as a background piece for the Halloween graveyard we’ve built near the side of the house. Drove down to Cañon City, then turned north into Phantom Canyon where we spied some twisted old Gambol oaks, which we plucked from the hillside and loaded into the back bed of the pickup. The perfect score! Gonna be quite the show come Friday.
Stopped at the grocery store on the way home and picked up some fixings for dinner. The hope is for mussels steamed in white wine, butter, dill, thyme, and parsley, served over a bed of linguine. You could wish for more, I suppose, but somehow it would seem greedy.
One last thing. The Dalhousie Review went live with its new issue, and “Blues Legend” is one of the featured pieces. Don’t know when the hard copies will be available, but soon I imagine. Dedicated the story to my old, old, oldest buddy, Bob Smith. A true fan of the blues, and a man whose own legend is, indeed, stranger than fiction.