I'm tired of endless "what if". I'm going to try something new. I'm going to post 14 things I'd like to get done this week.
Then I'm going to look back in one week, and see what I did get done. By next Sunday, I want to:
1. get a room reserved and arrange for advertising for my chess tournament;
2. load the software for my digicam on my computer
3. clean up my art room
4. post my CD for sale on eBay
5. relist my chess poem book on eBay.
6. write 2 amazon.com reviews of books i've read
7. read the third book, a good one long half-finished I wish to review and review it
8. submit poems seeking potential publication to 3 magazines or ezines
9. contact the woman about the fund-raising thing
10. send off an ad to Aquarium Fish Magazine promoting the Feeder Guppy Rescue League, to make satire into true reality.
11. take four walks
12. schedule doctor's appointment
13. get hood for fish tank
14. finish 2 nervousness exchanges
These 14 should be completely do-able. I'll be interested to see if I do them.
Today I missed the gathering of the local nanowrimo group, which apparently met at Grapevine Mills this afternoon. I forgot to check the "forum" for this group, nor did I realize that they now have a "mailing list" for the DFW group. I should have realized at least the meeting was probably going to be in session somewhere today, as it seems as though my LJ friends' list is alive with people displaying plots for as-yet-unwritten novels, including polls as to which novel to write, detailed character precis', and a variety of expostulations on the theory of bad literature written quickly. I really enjoyed the DFW get togethers last year, so I'm kicking myself just a bit for missing the first one. It's pleasant, of course, to chat with folks doing something silly for great fun that way. I should have checked into it--I suppose I assumed that I'd get a contact e-mail, but that was an unreasonable assumption. I must remain more aware of such things. Sometimes I sleep walk when I should use infrared night vision.
Instead, I watched a bit of football on television, and then went walking on the Sister Grove Trail, between Princeton and Farmersville, off Highway 380. On the way to the trail, I stopped at the Princeton Flea Market and wandered around. One place sold collectible Elvis cards, and the woman who owned it (to the extent that any vendor "owned" the rental storage space which comprises the flea market,just in front of the manufactured home park) described in her rich rural east Texas accent how some shopper had been inquiring for a giant velvet Elvis poster. Sister Grove Trail meanders through a scrubby woodland, where leaves had fallen in profusion along the trail. Then I drove into Farmersville, population 2300, and looked around its tiny downtown. I browsed an antique store which had some interesting things, but nothing I wished to buy. I meandered along farm roads back home, stopping at Trinity Trail because the red sky sunset stunned me so much I wished to take its picture. Off in the distance, away from the sun's direction, a man flying a parachute with an engine attached hovered overhead. I saw great blue herons, sea gulls, and the "It'll Do" nightclub on my travels.
I see that over in the "Unitarians" community, a firestorm of discussion has erupted, more or less, because one poster apparently no longer likes being a unitarian. The world is full of woes, I'm sure, but I feel as though the woes I want to focus on are not whether one individual poster has ideological dissatisfactions with his no-longer-chosen faith, nor even whether he could be more tactful in detailing them. I suppose that I'd rather focus on red sunsets.
Speaking of red, I saw a huge red-tailed hawk perched on a telephone pole, keeping an eye out for mice and rabbits. As the green grass fades into the brown dead weeds, these hawks will become as familiar in November and December as scissortail flycatchers were in June.
I suppose I will have to think of a novel theme by Saturday,when this competition begins. It would be pithy to say "something red", but the only reds that come to mind are Skelton and a lot of dreary NKVD pre-WWII types, which seems hardly a promising beginning.
This year I suppose I will at least begin a novel. But next year? All poetry, all the time. A November in verse.