We are the keepers of several curses

What went before: One thousand seven hundred and thirty-ish new words, and some plotting. Tomorrow is not looking like a good day to write, and in fact, it may be that Tuesday will simply become a Business Day, since needlework is at 5.

I read 70 pages of proofs, go, me.

I did a little more research into the Braiding thing, and I will not be attending. I had somehow had a picture of people sitting in a circle perhaps, braiding brightly colored string or ribbon or yarn, and telling whatever story arose when it was your turn to tell. It sounded nice, in my head, restful, and intimate.

This is actually not what happens. I mean, there's a bit where people are encouraged to record their stories. But what they'll be braiding is hair. And the braids made during the session will be incorporated into a braid sculpture created by the leader of the event, and that? Doesn't appeal to me at all.

So! I won't be braiding. I'll look at the schedule to see if there's anything else that seems interesting, or maybe, yanno, I'll just stay home on First Friday. It's not like I don't have stuff to do.

It's dark already, here at 7pm Eastern (US), and I'm really dreading the closing in of the dark. After work -- right after Coon Cat Happy Hour -- was Us Time for Steve and me. We shared a meal, and wine, played a game -- or two -- or just read together, catching each other up in comments and in silence. I really, really miss that, and I can't seem to find anything to fill the empty space that is . . . calm and satisfying. It may get better, once I get at least two of the four writing and writing-adjacent projects out of the way, and can read in the evening again. Right now, I can't do that, because my day has been filled with too many words already, and my head is ringing with them.

Anyhow.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. I'll check in tomorrow.

Tuesday. Blue skies, high, puffy white clouds. Chilly it begins and chilly it shall remain.

Trash and recycling have made it to the curb. First cup of tea to hand. I should find something to eat for breakfast. Eh. Tea and free association first.

The first two pair of jeans I put on this morning slipped right off before I could even put anything in the pockets, so I guess 38X34 is no longer a thing. Happily, I have several pairs of 36X34, which are a little loose, but that's what belts and tuck-in shirts are for.

This morning, after breakfast, another trek to the hospital, for xray and blood draw. Possibly meeting a friend for lunch and a hand-off that's been months in the making.

Needlework at 5.

Somewhere in-between there, I ought to do business things and read some page proofs. Check.

Today . . . Today is September 30, the day before The Game officially begins. As you are aware, last year I did not play. As you are also aware, the Openers won.

I am this year enlisting on the side of the Closers, and will commence my participation tonight with: "I am a watchdog. My name is Snuff."

Who's with me?

Today's blog post title brought to you by Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October, 1993, Avon Books.

Addendum

Pursuant to my last post, which has Raised Questions.

Questions Have Been Asked.

A Night in the Lonesome October by Roger Zelazny is for Halloween what an Advent Calendar is for Christmas. The narrative is dated, from October 1 through October 31, save the very first chapter, which is undated, and which introduces Our Narrator, the Watchdog, Snuff. Steve and I would read this chapter on September 30.

NOTE: This book is not a one-night read; it was not MEANT to be a one-night read. It was meant to be read a chapter a day throughout the month of October. I have had people tell me that this is (1) stupid and (2) that they can't start and book and not finish it. To which I say, in the immortal words of Julie Brown: So what? and also -- you're doing the book, the experience, and the author's intention a disservice by gulping it down like a stale piece of cake.

Ahem.

The narrative relates the events leading up to Halloween, in which the characters sort themselves out into two opposing teams -- the Openers, and the Closers. For about half of the book -- until the dying of the moon -- it is impolite to ask one's affiliation.

The action takes place just outside of London. Characters include a mysterious man and his dog; a witch and her cat, a great detective, a notorious doctor, a bat-winged count, and a man who watches the phases of the moon very closely, indeed. Among others.

I recommend this book highly. I recommend that it be read a chapter a night from now until Halloween. Steve and I were first made aware of this book by the late, delightful, and still-lamented Vicki Brown, who sent us a copy back in the late nineties. We read it aloud, taking turns, every October for decades.

Our yearly ritual would start with Steve asking me, Very Seriously, on the morning of September 30, "Do you know where The Book is?" and I would go to the bookshelf, pull it out, and show it to him. He would chose a business card to serve as a bookmark, and The Book would be placed on the Mencken Table in our living room ready for reading the prologue that evening, after we were done with the working part of the day.

We would often flip for who read the first chapter, using an old Ike silver dollar.

This year, I don't have to flip the Ike, and the business card bookmark says, "Steve Miller."

I hope this clears up all the confusion I apparently caused this morning.