While I was working on my novel today, Gary was winterizing the house.
He removed a window from the west bedroom and took it to the hardware store to have it repaired. When he broke the glass last winter, he replaced it with some Plexiglass he had on hand, but he didn't think that was adequate.
Then he began to cover all the windows that face west and north with plastic. That makes a big difference in this office and an even bigger difference in the bathroom. Without the plastic, we could use neither room after December.
While he was doing that, I was working on the third draft of the novel. I have a stack of bits and pieces, sometimes a paragraph, sometimes a page, that I wrote over the years, descriptions of the characters, the scenery, or the action. I work them into the story as I go along. Today, it was a hike in the hills above Windemere in England's Lake District.
The trail narrowed. The morning's rain had left it wet and slippery. Wet sheep piles were dissolving into the water. Ronna stopped to eat one of her pot pies. She was not particularly hungry, but she wanted to get it out of the way, one less thing to carry, and thought to eat the second, but reflected that the reason she was overweight was that she always ate any food that was available. She wrapped the second pie in the napkin and put it in her jacket pocket. The water bottle had a strap so she put that over her shoulder. There was a branch beside the trail, and she broke off enough of a stick to give her balance and went on, looking for the scenery the girl had promised.
But the wet spots turned to muddy spots, made up of dirt and little piles of marbled sheep feces. At times, the trail became a quagmire. Using her stick, she found the mud ankle deep, so she moved rocks so she could jump from one to another. The views were as promised, spectacular views of the lake through the V of the cut trees, downed for the trail. This was what Wordsworth had seen, for the most part, though sometimes a curve revealed the urban sprawl that was Windemere. When the trail became soupy, Ronna just walked on the grass to one side. The other side was a high stone wall, no doubt built two centuries before when the landlords decided to fence in the land to keep the sheep in and the farmers who once worked as sharecroppers out. Families were thrown off the lands they had worked for generations.
How does that read? I never know until months later. At any rate, as of today I have 34,858 words. By the end of the month, I should have a 60,000+ word novel.
By the end of the day, the windows were covered and we were completely winterized.
He removed a window from the west bedroom and took it to the hardware store to have it repaired. When he broke the glass last winter, he replaced it with some Plexiglass he had on hand, but he didn't think that was adequate.
Then he began to cover all the windows that face west and north with plastic. That makes a big difference in this office and an even bigger difference in the bathroom. Without the plastic, we could use neither room after December.
While he was doing that, I was working on the third draft of the novel. I have a stack of bits and pieces, sometimes a paragraph, sometimes a page, that I wrote over the years, descriptions of the characters, the scenery, or the action. I work them into the story as I go along. Today, it was a hike in the hills above Windemere in England's Lake District.
The trail narrowed. The morning's rain had left it wet and slippery. Wet sheep piles were dissolving into the water. Ronna stopped to eat one of her pot pies. She was not particularly hungry, but she wanted to get it out of the way, one less thing to carry, and thought to eat the second, but reflected that the reason she was overweight was that she always ate any food that was available. She wrapped the second pie in the napkin and put it in her jacket pocket. The water bottle had a strap so she put that over her shoulder. There was a branch beside the trail, and she broke off enough of a stick to give her balance and went on, looking for the scenery the girl had promised.
But the wet spots turned to muddy spots, made up of dirt and little piles of marbled sheep feces. At times, the trail became a quagmire. Using her stick, she found the mud ankle deep, so she moved rocks so she could jump from one to another. The views were as promised, spectacular views of the lake through the V of the cut trees, downed for the trail. This was what Wordsworth had seen, for the most part, though sometimes a curve revealed the urban sprawl that was Windemere. When the trail became soupy, Ronna just walked on the grass to one side. The other side was a high stone wall, no doubt built two centuries before when the landlords decided to fence in the land to keep the sheep in and the farmers who once worked as sharecroppers out. Families were thrown off the lands they had worked for generations.
How does that read? I never know until months later. At any rate, as of today I have 34,858 words. By the end of the month, I should have a 60,000+ word novel.
By the end of the day, the windows were covered and we were completely winterized.
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