I enjoyed a quiet, uneventful weekend. I really can’t complain. After a morning’s work on the sequel to Karl Thorson and the Jade Dagger (look for it in mid-November from Twilight Times) I took MBW and the HA up to a friend’s cabin on the river, near Mt. Hood. And there was much relaxing.
It is a commonplace that golf serves in multiple ways as a metaphor for life. Let me mention some of these metaphors and lessons of the links.
MBW and the HA gave me a unique Father’s Day gift this year: quiet time. MBW drove the HA to California for a week’s visit to visit grandparents. The HA will get some camping in, MBW will get some work done. And I get a week at home of quiet and sleeping in.
My family loves me.
I had a party at my house last night, a triple celebration: my fiftieth birthday, the tenth anniversary of my marriage to MBW, and MBW’s U.S. citizenship. The house echoed at times with the play of what seemed a hundred children, but couldn’t have been more than a half dozen. At the end of the night we discovered that a glutinous jar of pink slime, some sort of kid’s plaything, had been ground into the HA’s carpet. While a few remaining adults got down to cleaning that up (it turns out ice cubes are useful in that regard — helpful tip for you) I went back downstairs to pack up leftovers and load the dishwasher. The aftermath of the party.
Naturally, that got me thinking about war. Specifically the aftermath, the cleanup. And more specifically, how fantasy novels tend to deal with (or not deal with) the aftermath of the epic battles that fill their pages.
This March is replete with major life milestones. Maybe I ought to offer each a few moments of reflection before the fact rather than let the weight of the milestones drop on me unprepared.
The tenth anniversary of my marriage impends. Ten years married to MBW. A decade. Imagine that. All those who thought no one could endure my nonsense for more than a few months can suffer the ignominy of error. I can understand the surprise, though. I mean, I know me pretty well and I have trouble putting up with myself. And those skeptics were merely relying on past history. A perfectly justifiable metric.
Shortly before noon yesterday I finally completed the first draft of Warlord. Needless to say, this pleased me. I looked forward to celebrating. But life does not give a damn about my desires. Instead of celebrating, I was laid low by whatever malady my daughter has been suffering since Thursday.
So, if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to stop writing this and crawl back into bed.
Snow both physically alters landscapes and creates illusory geography. The familiar, quotidian view out your window becomes something altogether new and different after even a moderate snowfall. It’s not all wondrous fairyscapes: the roadside landscape, with its new allotment of crashed and disable cars is a reminder that the temporary physical and illusory alterations come with hidden dangers. I think both Tolkien and Lord Dunsany would appreciate that.
January rolled around again and with it came another opportunity to celebrate the birthday of J.R.R. Tolkien at the Kennedy School. The event added a new wrinkle this year with a room dedicated to Lord of the Rings tabletop games. I hadn’t realized there were so many of them. I’d be tempted to give the game room a shot next year if unaccompanied. However I’m rather certain the HA wouldn’t have the patience for it.
The Web Log wishes you and yours a Happy New Year. Despite a dearth of publication, 2018 was a good year for me. I hope yours suited you. 2019 looks promising, especially as far a publication is concerned. I will keep you updated.
Enough talk. Enough writing (except of course for tomorrow; I must get in my word count before the Bowl Game. But other than that, enough writing for 2018.)
Those of you who stay up late enough to watch the ball drop, have a good time. For the rest of us, may our neighbors keep the noise down and let us get some rest.
December again. How did that happen? If seems like I’ve only just finished washing up the Thanksgiving dishes. And now I’m neck-deep in stringing lights along the rain-gutters, hanging ornaments on a tree, and vacuuming up glittering refuse from homemade Christmas card creation.