I had an enormously sad day yesterday.

Mr. H., the tabby who thought he was James Dean, was sent to join his brother in the great kitty playground in the sky.

I was one of his “moms” for five years, from kittenhood to his prime. He went on to other adventures, but always allowed my adoration with good grace. He was one of those chunky cats who tried all the Siamese acrobatics and ended up crashing around like a little striped bulldozer, ornaments scattering in his wake. He liked chewing buttons, hiding under scatter rugs and never met a piece of kibble he didn’t like.  More a good-time boy than a scholar, he was always affectionate and ready to play.

I was sorry to see his passing, but it was as good and loving as humans could make it. It’s a hard call to know when enough is enough, and I was grateful that this time the decision was not mine to make. He could have gone on, but there was a lot of discomfort. I think a final, quiet afternoon nap was the right choice.
Cats deal with these occasions better than people. They do what they have to do and move on. We did the best we could to honour his contribution to our happiness, with single malt and a viewing of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Miss ya, little guy.

So, while I had my head buried in a manuscript, the world of commerce evidently marched along to the Christmas season.  This little trick of the calendar struck me over the head as I emerged from my cave, blinking at the bright, tinselly world like a grumpy grizzly.

How did the year fast-forward like this?

Anyway, spent the weekend wading the rapids of rampant consumerism. Went to a craft fair. Went to a few malls. Got a few things off the shopping list as well as mundane tasks like buying a new watch band. I’m not caught up, but at least I’m less far behind!

Wow.

The initial production on the sequel to RAVENOUS is complete.  That is, the author has proposed, and now the editor will dispose.  There bound to be some changes. There always are.

I’m sad, because I really enjoyed spending time with my characters, particularly my sarcastic hero.  It’s an emotional wrench when the manuscript leaves. Of course, it’s going to come back forty thousand times until I’m heartily sick of it but, for now, I feel all empty nesty and woebegone.

The book is (at least in this point of time) called SCORCHED. As both my editor and I like the title, I’m hoping it stays.

Tonight I’m going out for dinner.  Tomorrow—I have to look at the list that starts “when the book is done …”

I’ve been quiet lately, but in a good cause.  It’s deadline time! Yup, the initial round of manuscript fun for book two is happening right now. The rush to the finish line. The pile of candy wrappers. The endless cups of coffee. The thousand-yard stare at the flickering screen. No more “I’ll fix it later” because the later is now.

Yeah, we’ll get to the finish line on time. It’s never pretty, but it’s a necessary part of the process.