C didn’t quite tell me I was crazy the last time we talked about book covers. Not quite. I could tell that she wanted to, though.

See, I made a ridiculous decision last month. I’ve been waiting for a cover designer for A Lonely Magic since April. The cover on it was a great placeholder while I was posting chapters on Fictionpress and Wattpad, but it didn’t satisfy me enough as the final cover. The designer I really wanted, though, had no time until October. While I was waiting, I fell in love with another artist’s work, and decided–much too impulsively–to hire her to design a cover for ALM. As it happens, I’m pretty sure that was a mistake, and if I had realized two weeks ago that it was a mistake, it would have been a no harm, no foul situation, as if it had never happened.

As it went, however, I had a cover designer hired, an artist working on the cover I had hired her for, and so I went another direction–I asked the designer to redesign the cover for A Gift of Ghosts. The right response is, “Again? Didn’t you just do that a few months ago? What’s wrong with that cover?” The answers are, “Yes, yes, and I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose, and yet… it always felt more like a collection of weird compromises than the right cover.”

The new cover feels like the right cover.

I’ve got a ton of work to do, getting new files working correctly, uploading them to all the different sites, changing all of my various marketing pages… but as I manage all that hassle, I’m feeling a nice happy glow of contentment. Beautiful, mysterious, a little spooky… it makes me want to read Ghosts again, as if I didn’t already know what it was all about.

My laundry is piled high. No, seriously, it’s overflowing the basket, making a mountain on the bathroom floor, in pseudo-neat piles by the bedroom door. It feels symbolic of my inability to get things done at the moment.

I’m feeling stuck. Like I want change, but don’t know how to get it. I want to sweep all the clutter in my house–oh, so much clutter right now–into boxes and throw them away so that I never have to see them again. I want to leave the ripped up floor and the peeling wallpaper behind. I want to escape, to move, to run away.

But when I start to think seriously about where I would go, what I would do, my brain comes to a dead halt. To move–well, living in a college town would be nice. Oh, wait, I do live in a college town. The weather has to be good, because I know that S.A.D. hits me hard in darker climates. Hmm, the weather is darn nice here. Cost of living has to be reasonable, like, um, it is here. And it would be good if I knew some people, like, oh, I do here. Not to mention finding a place that is perfectly balanced between a sense of nature–like spotting hawks and herons on my morning walk–and convenient urbanity, like having multiple grocery stores within a ten minute drive.

In other words, where I live is just about perfect for me. Except for the fact that I feel desperately in need of change, like I want to escape, like I’m stuck.

I’m going to guess that doing the laundry, cleaning the bathroom, getting the floor repaired and the walls painted, would all go a long way to making me feel better about life. And writing a book would help a lot, too.

Three years ago, I was two weeks away from finishing A Gift of Ghosts. I wish I could go back in time and remember exactly how I was feeling. I know that back then I confidently expected that I would have finished writing my million words by now. I anticipated that I’d be starting to consider how seriously I wanted to take my writing, whether I wanted to try to earn money from it. I also expected that I’d have my master’s degree and be working towards my licensure. I thought that would take me three years, but I’d be a year into it. Yeah, that’s weird to remember.

What I should remember, though, is that this week has been an absolutely lovely week. R is home for fall break and it has been such a pleasure to have him here. He’s happy–really, seriously, having fun and excited, loving school happy–and it is such a joy to bask in his stories and know that he’s feeling great. The weather has been phenomenal–it’s turned now, so is cool and lovely, but I swam for five or six days in a row. We’ve eaten good food and watched television together and I’ve listened to interesting stories about the Byzantine empire and public transit in Sarasota and yeah, life is good. I don’t know where my life is going or what I’m doing, but maybe for now, I need to let it be enough to enjoy the day.

Well, and do some writing, too.

Tomorrow is my half-birthday. Not the kind of thing that one normally notices past the age of five or six, but I happened to look at the date, and it made me think of it. Back on my birthday, I wanted this year to be magical. It was a silly number game–my birthday and my age were the same, which is something that doesn’t happen to very many people, and it felt like it meant that the year should be special. Unique. Extraordinary.

So far… yeah. I’ve been sick a lot, and most work-related things have been a bust. I hoped I would find an editor who I loved but instead the editor I hired was a huge waste of money and time. I had fingers crossed for a marketing intern, hoping she’d be an enthusiastic assistant, but she quickly figured out that she didn’t want to be in marketing. Good for her, but a bust for me. For the first time, I was optimistic about a book before release, but… yeah. It was misplaced optimism. I hired a cover designer because I fell in love with her work and thought she’d give me something extraordinary, but many empty promises later, I haven’t seen a thing. Honestly, my magical year has, work-wise, been enough to send me looking for a job in retail. Not to mention that I haven’t done any good new writing since April, which probably ought to be first on that list.

All that said, though, I fired a gun for the first time. It was fun, like holding an explosion in your hand. Heavier than I realized it would be. I traveled in the RV as the adult-in-charge for the first times. It was awesome, a serious feeling of competence. I drove a tractor and played with the shovel lifter scoop thing and just the memory makes me smile and feel joyful. I had a dinner party, with games, for ten people, none of whom I knew two years ago. So I don’t want to wallow in disappointment. Those are the things that I want to remember–the unexpected moments of trying something new, doing something different, enjoying an experience that pushes my boundaries.

Last Sunday, in a brief spurt of feeling well, I went swimming. The water was wonderful, a little cool but clean and with the hot sun beating down, it felt lovely, a perfect swimming day. Zelda, of course, was playing with her basketball, so I’d swim to the side of the pool and throw it for her, and then swim some more. None of that is anything exceptional.

But Macie–Macie, who hates the water!–really wanted to play, too. She’d splash into the top step of the pool and bounce straight out again. For most of August, she’s watched me bring Bartleby into the pool with mild horror in her eyes. That day, it was more like speculation.

Little digression: I want Bartleby to be comfortable in the water–it’s safer, obviously–so most days when I swim, I scoop him up, bring him into the water, hold him loosely, let him relax, then have him half swim, half be supported to the steps when he’s ready to get out. He’s gone from being resistant, growling and trying to get away from me, to amenable and tolerant, if not enthusiastic. Given that he’s got a ton of black fur, I think hanging out outside with us in the Florida heat is probably a lot pleasanter when he’s wet, anyway.

On this day, I brought him in, then let him out, and apparently that was the cue Macie needed. The water–the horrible, horrible water–couldn’t be that bad if Bartleby was okay with it. So three or four times, she made it to the second step, then turned and fled and raced around the backyard as if she were being chased by demons. On the fourth time, she actually made it to the third step. Her entire head went under and when it came up, her eyes were so wide she reminded me of a cartoon character, with eyes popping out of her head. She immediately turned around, swam the step back to the stairs, and that was it–she wanted to go inside after that.

Ten minutes later, I was floating in the water, face up to the sun, eyes closed, when I bumped into something. It took me a minute to realize that Bartleby was swimming in circles around me. It’s the first time he’s ever come into the pool by himself.

The irony is that it was cool this morning when I was walking Zelda, and the love bugs–these atrociously maddening Florida bugs that swarm in late fall and late August–were out. Lovebugs are harmless but during their mating seasons, they get everywhere, and then die. You can wind up with four or five of them crawling on you at once if you try to sit outside and their bodies stack up on the tables, by the doors, in the pool, everywhere. Completely harmless, but oh, so gross. Anyway, both those things–cool weather and lovebugs–mean that swimming season is probably over or close to it. The dogs might have tried swimming on the very last day of swimming until next spring.

That somehow feels poignant to me. There are times when everything seems possible, but this year, fall feels like endings and lost opportunities and great moments already gone.

Today is the miracle day that I’ve been waiting for: reintroduction! Except that I feel like crap, so reintroduction is sort of pointless. I wouldn’t be able to tell whether I was reacting to the food or whether I was still in the remarkably slow recovery stage of this cold. C keeps telling me I should go to a doctor, but I am fatalistic about doctors’ abilities to help one with cold/flu symptoms. I’ll get better eventually, just in time to start reintroducing foods and seeing what I react to by what makes me feel lousy. Hmm… that does sound bad when put that way, doesn’t it?

I’ve been having a terrible time trying to write. I decided yesterday that it wasn’t writer’s block so much as profound writer’s self-loathing. I just seem to hate everything that I write. It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. But I told a friend yesterday my entire plot for A Precarious Balance and it sounds so fun. The complications and the twists and the cities, the emotional conflicts, the characters and relationships… I really like it. In my head. On screen, no, not so much. “One word after another”–the only writing strategy that really works for me–has turned into lot of spinning wheels and deleting drafts. It reminds me of writing A Gift of Time. I don’t know whether that means I should stick with it, the way I did for the interminable 18 months spent writing Time, or leave it for now and do something else. For the moment, at least, I’m going the stick-with-it route. And I think I will now open up the file and stare at it some more. I can tell myself that I’ve already written 300 words and that all I need to do is keep my fingers moving. Maybe it’ll work.

I was feeling resentful about this stupid diet this morning before breakfast. I wanted granola with yogurt. Nice and easy and fast, stick the food in your mouth, chew it up, swallow it down, get on with life. But no, that’s not an option if I want to feel healthy. So fine… I went out to the kitchen, browsed around and wound up making myself a nori handroll with smoked salmon, avocado, capers, red onion, and thinly-sliced lemon. As I ate it, I thought about the number of times I might have paid serious money for similar foods at restaurants. $8 for a bagel with lox, red onion and capers, easily, in almost any city I’ve lived in. Or a fancy sushi roll, $10.95, maybe. And yet here I was, lucky enough to be eating such in my own house. I should have appreciated it.

Then lunchtime rolled around. I had some leftover options, but I’d eaten both yesterday already, so I started cooking, feeling grumpy the entire time. I wanted a tunafish sandwich. On good bread. With mayonnaise, and maybe some melted cheese. Instead, I was chopping carrots and onions, pulling out my homemade chicken broth, finding the bag of seafood medley in the freezer… grump, grump, grump. But within half an hour, I was sitting down to a coconut curry fish stew with calamari, mussels, shrimp, and scallops, and rolling my eyes at myself.

This diet looks like so much work. Well, and feels like so much work. That coconut curry was only possible because I’d already made home-made chicken stock and a seedless curry powder with about eight different ingredients. But if I’d been eating at a restaurant with fancy tablecloths, my curry stew wouldn’t have been out of place. So much of the food on this diet is delicious for an amount of effort that is actually not nearly as oppressive as it seems. The stew took me half an hour to make, and I have enough for at least two more servings before I’m through with it.

So… coconut curry fish stew derived from Feed Me Rachel’s coconut chicken curry:

Seedless Curry Powder:
1 tbsp Granulated Garlic
1 tbsp Granulated Onion
1 tbsp Turmeric
2 tsp Cilantro, dried
2 tsp Basil, dried
2 tsp Dill Weed, dried
2 tsp Cinnamon
1 tsp Black Pepper (omit for Ballantyne version of AIP)
1 tsp Ginger
1/2 tsp Ground Clove

Combine all ingredients together thoroughly.

(Note: this doubles Rachel’s recipe, because I’m too lazy to measure 1/2 tablespoons.)

Coconut Curry Fish Stew

1/2 bag of frozen seafood medley from Costco
2 tablespoons seedless curry powder
2 tablespoons coconut oil
1 chopped onion
5 carrots, sliced
1 tsp salt
2 cups chicken stock
1 can coconut milk
some cilantro

Add oil to a large pot on medium heat. Chop onion and slice carrots, then put them in the pre-heated pot. Saute for a few minutes, add salt, keep cooking until vegetables are lightly browned (approximately 15 minutes.)

In another pan, saute the seafood. It’s super-watery from the ice so give it five minutes or so, but be careful not to overcook it.

Turn the heat down to low on the vegetables and add the curry powder. Lightly brown the curry powder, keeping it moving, and adding oil if necessary to stop if from burning. You’re “lightly toasting” the spices. Add the chicken stock, turn the heat up to medium-high, and bring the stew to a boil. Add the seafood and continue boiling until liquid is reduced to half of what it was. Add the coconut milk and cilantro, turn the heat down to medium lowish, and simmer until again reduced by half, about ten minutes or so.

Eat. Say yum.