Another Rainy Saturday

Today I planted spring bulbs. Noticed that the toad lilies, which the deer dined on in mid-summer, were blooming. Not as tall as last year, but still pretty. The last flowers to bloom.

I picked chives, parsley, oregano, basil and cilantro. Made a fancy salad just like on the cooking show this afternoon. Red leaf and baby lettuces. A nice oil and vinegar dressing and the herbs. A touch of garlic. The garden’s last offerings. So good.

We fed the cows in the rain. The young calf is getting shaggy hair. She comes to the fence with the others, but doesn’t quite grasp that she should eat our offerings. I tempt her with wilted cilantro, but she only sniffs it. The old calf and the young one hang out together now, having discovered, I guess that they are both calves. Hard to determine what goes on in a cow’s mind.

I am reading a “how to write a mystery” book, and I took some stuff out of my first scene, and moved it further into the narrative. That helped the action move along better. I can really see the difference.

Another rejection for Promiscuous Mode. This time, the agent will only look at writing recommended by someone. Who? Another agent? An editor? I could be the next Dan Brown. Of course, I’m not. Even I know that. But she doesn’t.
This is a crazy business.
It’s difficult (and very bad form) to stand around with your hat in your hand asking established writers to recommend you. Just isn’t done. And everyone is too busy and jealously guarding his/her own career to offer to take a look at your writing. I’ve been networking like mad for 10 years and it hasn’t ever happened. Well, once. But the recommendation was to a religious press that didn’t want sex or bad language. I have some, not much, but enough to make me leery.

Time to cheer on the White Sox. Time to suck it up.

Aloha!

Grapeshot