It’s not raining. The church across the street has finished running its gigantic sidewalk vacuum cleaner–which makes enough noise to cause this apartment building to shake–up and down the sidewalk. It’s cold, though. Cold enough so that the ink is shy and slow, coming out of the pen.
Avanti! On goes the sweater, the hat, the winter coat and hood, and out the door I go, to try and write the last chapter of His Mercy Endureth Forever.
Yeah, yeah, it’s sort of an eccentricity, to insist on writing all my fiction outdoors. But I can’t help it–I need my sky. I need my birds, my trees… and my cigar. All of those things help me concentrate.
The sun’s out, but the forecast is for yet more rain tomorrow.
Please, Lord, help me to finish this job; and may my work be fruitful in your service.