The Naked Ladies have since died, and the plants look tired and dusty. Rain sure would be nice. The sun is slowly fading, and the year starts to wind down. I think of Dylan Thomas's call to rage against the dying light, to fight darkness with red passion. Thing is, when the light dies, I don't have the moxie to rage. I just want to find a hole, crawl down into it, and pull it over me.But what am I thinking? It's another beautiful, warm, sunny day and the coffee is hot. Still lots of days to sit in the sun.
I'm plugging away at Book 2 of the Dark Lady series. I had to ditch a lot of great stuff on the heroine because it was too much for this book. Ah well, I can use it later. Once this one is finished, I can resurrect an almost-finished novel about her early life that I'd abandoned.
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