I miss red wine. I miss beer. I miss stinky cheese and smoked wild salmon. Tomorrow, maybe.
Last night I pulled the novel manuscript out of the drawer beside my bed and began looking it over with as critical an eye I could manage. I took a knife to it and began cutting, butchering. Ouch. I have so much to do that needs to be done. The statue inside the block of marble. This time it won't be a waste of time. What helps: looking at the shelves upon shelves I have of books. If they could do it, so can I. Commitment, I has it.
I've been thinking a lot about what I want the novel to be about, the heart of it. I'm pretty sure I know now. It will be a tricky balance telling the story, the mythology without getting too dolphin worship-y, but I can do it.