The weather took a sudden turn this week, feels like fall. I think it's 57 degrees today, and tonight is supposed to get down into the 40's.
I'm wearing socks and a fleece. When I walked the dogs, a definite scent of woodsmoke mingled in the air. The boulevard is strewn with small brown leaves, crispy ones, and fragrant fallen crab apples.
There's a roaring in my ears. I hope it goes away soon. After my recent bout with my illness, I am more tired than usual, less hungry, puffier throughout my body, stiff of finger, slow of mind.
I feel the press of limited time. I want to write a book before I leave this earth. Nakedly I say it, words I usually shelter close inside my shirt collar. Because I don't write books. Men write better than women (just saying; as a preteen I had discovered this at the public library and often refused even to lift a book by a female author off the shelf), and the British write far better than Americans. As an American woman, what hope could I possibly have?
Anyway, I have to wait until the roaring stops, and the finger dexterity improves.
So instead of a book, I just wrote another blog post over on the other blog.
If you're interested you can click here to read it.
I have fewer words to spew in a day at present, probably a great mercy.