Last night at approximately 11:53 EST, DP and I stumbled into the house. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see my kitchen before. I’ve been visiting my sister-in-law’s house for so long that I am comfortable there. I no longer ask if it’s okay if I make coffee if no one else wants any. The triplets no longer knock before the barge into the bedroom to say goodnight to my dog.
I worried there was a tree down as we pulled into the driveway because it seemed as if I could see more sky. But it was just fall, stripping the leaves from the trees. The Japanese maple outside my window is as red as the walls of my dining room. My computer and I have been reunited with the dining room table. This is where I spend most of my time.
I caught a cold, and my voice is so weak that I had to tap my dog’s back to wake him up. Usually I cajole him out of bed and down the stairs to go outside. Today he stared at me as I whispered, “Come on! Come on!” Fortunately there are presentations in class today. I do not have to talk.
What about the Fucker? you ask. Well. I read a bit online about writing a synopsis. Turns out you strip the story of its emotion and nuance and get it on the page. If you can’t figure out how to write it, then you probably haven’t thought the book through. I wrote the first 600 words of the synopsis in mere minutes. I’m foundering at the transition to and from the sore-thumb section, but if I hadn’t been heading out the door yesterday to drive for 2,398 miles (or thereabouts), I probably would have figured it out.
[Ed. aside: DP just walked in, and when I read him the title of today’s post, he said, “a couple of what?” I’ll leave that to you, dear readers.]
I’m going to swig some cold medicine, wander into class, let other people talk, go home early, and finish the fucker.
How’s your fucker?