It’s the last week of my school-based job. Thus it’s “summer,” no matter that I haven’t seen 70 degrees in several weeks and that my irises haven’t even come out yet. Academia is weird.
It also means that I am going to have more time to edit, and hopefully, more time to write. I have to go do research at [prestigious institution] and see if I can finagle a place to stay at [fancy place] to do more research. I’m going to try to give myself the time I need to do that research.
In a mere two weeks I’m sending out the entire Fucker to a friend of mine. No worries that the end isn’t quite done, I’ve worked pretty hard on the rest of it, thank you very much.
And then there’s my buddy J. I’ve worked with J for a bunch of years, as a tutor and as a colleague. She is one of those sneaky writers, always doing good work, never having to try that hard. Then she started working with me and I pushed her. She started revising for real. Her prose will make you cry. (And if you don’t turn that into a book, my friend, I’m going to kick your ass.) J is going off and working a real job a few hours from here. And I’m going to miss her like crazy.
Seasons, artificial or not, are good for you. They force you to change your habits and remember where you’ve been and where you are going.
Where are you going?