Invercargill, Fate and Inner Editors
Ask and you shall receive.
A day late for the Sunday School lesson, yes. But it happened. I asked for a dot in Invercargill last week -- and yesterday morning I had an email from Pat, my long-suffering wonderful "minder" from my NZ conference, the one who brought me gallons of sustaining tea by the cupful. She lives not far from Invercargill and was writing to say she was going to be my dot.
Bless you, Pat. I
f I can do anything for you now . . . let me know! In fact Pat's dot will not show up for another 800 or so visits to my blog (it's 20% increase to get a new map these da
ys) so we'll just wait a bit for it. But it will be there. Thank you, Pat.
Just south of Invercargill is Bluff. These two photos were taken about as far south in Bluff as you can go before getting your feet wet. We went down there for lunch the first day and sat beside a roaring fire drinking tea and eating fish and chips and enjoying the view of a stormy sea -- and the knowledge that if you missed Stewart Island, the next landfall was Antarctica!
Then we drove back into town and did some shopping before heading out to our bed and breakfast outside of town. It rained most of the time we were in town and we neve
r got wet because of the covered walks. Great place. And I bought my missing Janet Evanovich book there!
Now then, Peru, anyone?
Flynn and Sara have gone out for coffee, letting me tag along and take notes. They are interesting people -- different than I remembered them. Flynn has a streak of Irish fatalism a mile wide -- which I suppose I can't blame him for. He battles against it -- and tradition and family demands, and keeps getting washed up on the shore of them all as soon as he gets knocked unconscious. Poor lad. And Sara isn't the idealist I remember. She's been tempered by life -- and a five year old son. They've got a great deal of promise. I just wish they'd let me in on the play-by-play ahead of time so I can give my editor a rundown of what to expect. Maybe over coffee . . .
My Inner Editor, the one the Nanowrimo people would have taken custody of if I'd signed on the dotted line (which I didn't), is back and pointing out that Flynn and Sara have taken a wrong turn about page 18. She's right, of course. And I think (Nanowrimo notwithstanding) that it will save me time in the long run if I fix it now -- less chance of running off a literary cliff long about page 30. So that's what I'm doing today.
A day late for the Sunday School lesson, yes. But it happened. I asked for a dot in Invercargill last week -- and yesterday morning I had an email from Pat, my long-suffering wonderful "minder" from my NZ conference, the one who brought me gallons of sustaining tea by the cupful. She lives not far from Invercargill and was writing to say she was going to be my dot.
Bless you, Pat. I
f I can do anything for you now . . . let me know! In fact Pat's dot will not show up for another 800 or so visits to my blog (it's 20% increase to get a new map these da
ys) so we'll just wait a bit for it. But it will be there. Thank you, Pat.Just south of Invercargill is Bluff. These two photos were taken about as far south in Bluff as you can go before getting your feet wet. We went down there for lunch the first day and sat beside a roaring fire drinking tea and eating fish and chips and enjoying the view of a stormy sea -- and the knowledge that if you missed Stewart Island, the next landfall was Antarctica!
Then we drove back into town and did some shopping before heading out to our bed and breakfast outside of town. It rained most of the time we were in town and we neve
r got wet because of the covered walks. Great place. And I bought my missing Janet Evanovich book there!Now then, Peru, anyone?
Flynn and Sara have gone out for coffee, letting me tag along and take notes. They are interesting people -- different than I remembered them. Flynn has a streak of Irish fatalism a mile wide -- which I suppose I can't blame him for. He battles against it -- and tradition and family demands, and keeps getting washed up on the shore of them all as soon as he gets knocked unconscious. Poor lad. And Sara isn't the idealist I remember. She's been tempered by life -- and a five year old son. They've got a great deal of promise. I just wish they'd let me in on the play-by-play ahead of time so I can give my editor a rundown of what to expect. Maybe over coffee . . .
My Inner Editor, the one the Nanowrimo people would have taken custody of if I'd signed on the dotted line (which I didn't), is back and pointing out that Flynn and Sara have taken a wrong turn about page 18. She's right, of course. And I think (Nanowrimo notwithstanding) that it will save me time in the long run if I fix it now -- less chance of running off a literary cliff long about page 30. So that's what I'm doing today.
posted by Anne McAllister at 10:54 AM
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