Gotta report, NaNoWriMo is not on the agenda this year. I had plans, but there you go. I am working on a sestina that has my head spinning, but the edits I intended to accomplish on my erstwhile novel, 'Strays,' are just not getting done. As a justification, I might add: I completed a grant application for a client, am in the process of distilling the poetry for a chapbook, made significant progress on my quilt, got the downstairs windows replaced, put out two postcards, designed my Christmas card, attended a workshop at Kozo, and managed three weeks ago to incur some vague not very important discomfort to my hip by moving too many boxes and items of furniture that should not be moved by Someone's Sainted Mother.
It's November. Only the duck hunters and the deer slayers need bestir themselves. Since returning from Illinois, I have to admit to symptoms of being entirely smitten, entirely unexpectedly, entirely absorbed in this whimsy. So forgive me, imaginary readers, for my sins of omission, if sins they be. Small crimes, more likely.
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