DAY SIX - A NANO Break

Today was spent  researching music -- a divine prospect and one I really don't wish to hurry, while at the same time, I cannot spend my days endlessly wallowing in the one beautiful swath of this novel.

I am savouring the time I do spend with Anna Garber as she prepares for the most significant night of her young life. Which is to say, I am not going to over paint and write excessively, but, I am not going to gloss it over too much, either.
I am mindful of the pacing.

Which brings me to NaNo -- I may not be a NaNo girl, after all, because my goal has changed from Day One. Now, it seems, I want to write as much as I can, and get this book launched -- but not at the expense of my sanity -- the jury is still out on that one. I don't pretend to have sanity most days, anyhow.


Later today, I will be going out to get a flu shot, doing some marketing in Westmount and then coming home. I may not write much then. But, I am raring to go. Now that my brain is properly stuffed with the Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 and all its nuances, I am ready to assist the Kapellmeister in teaching Anna how to attack it!

Tomorrow night we turn back the clocks. I like the idea of extra sleep; I hate the idea of dark days when it's only 4 p.m. and you can't see your hand in front of your face. In fact, I find it very hard making the adjustment, and think it's a really dumb idea, because it just feels so much colder when the sun goes down at this time of year.

Years ago, when I lived here -- before I moved away and subsequently returned --
I wrote a poem about November. A rather hopeful one.


So, for those who hate this time of year, here's a small consoling piece of nostalgia:

November! Colder and bleaker

than all the witches tits

in Macbeth, no more.

Sipping wine, munching Ritz bits

I order November and all cold winds

Exeunt from the drab picture

of an unromantic play!

Looking southward, the river

sparkling, the sweet-sooted

chimney tops puff spirals

of long forgotten days

when cities held magic

of shiny black pavements

splattered in oily, rainbowed

dwindling frosts,

and little children scampered home

in shiny Macs and bright umbrellas

through expectant November streets and November grays,

caught up in an eiderdown

of warm tea, and tales of Pooh,

and the onset of Saint Nicholas Days.

November at Haddon Hall, Montreal 1988