Monday, October 19, 2009

Seven Christmases

Signed off on an offer on the old house. Lotsa daylight between an offer and the money being in your bank account, but it looks pretty solid. It'll be nice to be paying only one mortgage again. No more Ramen!

We went over to the old house on Sunday to clean up, rake, decide on some repairs before the inspection. It was different looking at the house without the anxiety of preparing it for sale hovering over things. This was the first house the lil hux and I owned, the second we lived in together. Had a wedding reception there. Celebrated seven Christmases in that tiny living room. Taught the girls to ride their bikes in the parking lot across the street. Played with Play-do on the kitchen table. Pitched whiffle-ball in the front yard. Birthday parties. Skinned knees. Thunderstorms. Memory collects like dust on your skin. Time is a wind at your face.






Writing odds and ends: got a story accepted at Fiction at Work. Goes up Nov. 4th. I'll post a link.

Eric has an excellent story up at Splinter Generation. Go read it. Now.

73K into the New Novel. A handful of chapters left and I'll be done. Of course, all that means is that I turn around and start the second draft. So, no cause for great celebration. But still. It is cause for some celebration.




I noticed during the Yankee-Angel game that the website they advertise on the dugouts is "bankofamerica/yankees." So rooting for the Yankees is no longer like rooting for Bank of America. Rooting for the Yankees quite literally is rooting for Bank of America.

7 comments:

Eric said...

I think it's a huge cause for celebration. Unless you're one of those folks who lays down the skeleton in the first draft, then adds the meat. In which case...maybe not quite huge.

Eager to see your story up. And thanks for the link on mine.

meno said...

Hooray on the house. Please to be sending a little of that luck this way.

Congratulations on the story. Looking forward to reading it.

Daisy said...

Found myself downtown without a writing implement today. Based on your Yankees encouragement, I stopped in at Bank of America and helped myself to one.

Hoorah on the house! Big sigh of relief for you I am sure.

Nancy Dancehall said...

I still sometimes drive by our first house too. If it hadn't been for the multiple robberies and other sundry miscreant threats, we'd still be there.

But now you have a ghost!

And finishing a book is ALWAYS cause for celebration, no matter what state the book is in.

Maggie said...

I'd celebrate!

it's amazing how many memories pile up so fast. perhaps as fast as the things that eventually occupy all the space between your walls...

Clowncar said...

It's pretty fleshed out, Eric. But I get rather anal during a second draft. The goods news is, once I get the first 50 pages rewritten I'll start sending it out.

Meno, what worked for me was deciding I was gonna rent the place out. No exaggeration: the day before I was gonna place the ad, we got the offer.

You've chosen Satan's own writing implement, Daisy. While you're asleep it'll sign over the deed to your house to Derek Jeter.

That was a great house you guys had, Nancy. And thanks SO MUCH for telling me if there's a ghost, it's in the attic. I had to go up there this week with a flashlight to get Halloween stuff. Shades of Blair Witch.

True dat, Maggie! Memories just start sprouting like weeds.

Clowncar said...

It's pretty fleshed out, Eric. But I get rather anal during a second draft. The goods news is, once I get the first 50 pages rewritten I'll start sending it out.

Meno, what worked for me was deciding I was gonna rent the place out. No exaggeration: the day before I was gonna place the ad, we got the offer.

You've chosen Satan's own writing implement, Daisy. While you're asleep it'll sign over the deed to your house to Derek Jeter.

That was a great house you guys had, Nancy. And thanks SO MUCH for telling me if there's a ghost, it's in the attic. I had to go up there this week with a flashlight to get Halloween stuff. Shades of Blair Witch.

True dat, Maggie! Memories just start sprouting like weeds.