It's friggin' cold outside. A mild Sunday offering occasional hints of sunshine proved to be a giant red herring because here I am, it's Monday, and the southerlies are howling at my idiotic hope for a mild fall. They are a sardonic wind.
I am almost a quarter through with my rewrites and if I can maintain my pace, I'll be done by June 5th. Here's what I've learned: there is no shortcut. Every word deserves some kind of scrutiny even if it's the foulest set of letters ever assembled. And if it is so foul, it better persuade me of its function among others less homely. Here's another lesson: I shouldn't hate myself for using foul words in the first place. There is a time and a place for them, I suppose, even if I decide to swear off some of them for the remainder of my days.
I'm supposed to go outside soon but I would turn away from a dinner party if I heard a screamer on the other side of the door. The wind is a maniac and I'm not sure I want to interact with it. I'll keep my head down, avoid eye contact and count time until I shut the door safely behind me with the wind on the other side.
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