Real life.
It’s intrusive.
Maybe I write fiction and mostly fantasy because I am trying to avoid real life.
Maybe I write children’s fiction because I am trying to deny that I am an adult.
Maybe I read children’s fiction because it offers me escape and a realm of possibility and often does not deal with real life. Although I also enjoy the gritty, real bits offered these days by many YA books.
Still my idea of the perfect day includes a cushioned window seat; a blustery, stormy day; a mug of hot chocolate; warm woolen socks; floor to ceiling bookshelves; a roaring fire; a cat or sleeping dog; and a fantasy book.
Sigh.
At present I am spending most of my time on the telephone. We are selling our house. We will be moving somewhere breathtakingly beautiful and I can’t wait to see how my new environment affects my writing. But for now, I am dealing with home inspectors and septic people and electricians. And because the weather has changed dramatically in the last few weeks, mountainous drifts of dead leaves which must be raked. I thought I would avoid it this year. I enjoy piling leaves. I don’t mind hauling them, but we have three acres of land and it takes all weekend to clear and then the wind blows during the night, and the next day there are more. Like hangers in the closet, leaves seem to multiply when no one is watching. They like to fall all together though. In clumps as if the tree has shrugged its shoulders.
Some years I don’t bother. It’s like dusting. You dust. A day goes by. You dust again. But then we get even more poison ivy. Poison ivy likes a deep rotting leaf mulch to propagate in. Mice bearing ticks like it too. The dog conceals his awful surprises. All good reasons to clear it.
Plus we need to keep the property looking pretty.
I might ask the husband figure if we can have a bonfire. We’ve never had one before. The smell of burning leaves, bundled in a warm sweater and gloves, the bite of the cold evening air. That might make it worthwhile.
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