Where is August Going To?

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I told a friend that she could come up and stay this month and we would spend a couple of days going out and about. Hmm . . . the month has gone by in a flurry of activity and still no "out and about."

I thought I would take part of August off . . . but the "off" part somehow stayed "on."

What is it about writing that can just totally submerge you? Does anyone else find this?

I should be enjoying the summer, I should be getting out-of-doors, I should be spending more time with friends. All those shoulds have gone the way of "out and about" and "off."

I know I'm an out and out eccentric--I mean who else drives around in their car with a large orange Cockatoo riding on their head? I did this when I lived in B.C. to echoes of "Oh my God! Look at that!"

These days I have a skunk named Stinky who lives under my back deck. Everyone tells me I must get rid of him . . . I don't have the heart to. Stinky and I have an understanding. I come and go as I please, leave out tidbits for him, and in return, he never raises his tail and never sprays around the house. No one can process this when I tell them.

Anyway, I fear my becoming increasingly submerged is a sign that I'm becoming even more eccentric.

I was going to at least take all of Sunday off. Hmm . . . I received the storyboard for my Bedbug children's book so spent an enjoyable hour going through it and adding information before sending it back to the publisher, I wrote two short articles, and I did some tweaking.

See what I mean? Submerged.

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