I’m sitting in a railway station (with apologies to Simon
and Garfunkel). The station in Osceola, IA, still retains the character of a
previous era, with golden wood wainscoting and trim, steam radiators, and a worn,
black-and-white tiled floor. It’s a great place to begin a journey, actually. More on train travel later, when I have hours to kill at the Metropolitan Lounge in Chicago's Union Station.
I sit here wondering what I should write next, or if I
should go back to editing Gaia’s Hands. There’s not too much impetus to
edit it with a backlog of books I’d like to see published (three are strong
contenders at the moment, although Whose Hearts are Mountains
really needs a dev edit.
I just got done with Hands, the short story with Grzegorz – my
husband has termed it “a really warped coming of age story”, and he’s right. I
hope to post it on this page for you to read.
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