The Bard's Death Mask--or Maybe Not
I had no idea there was, extant, a death mask of Shakespeare. As a collector of masks, I want one of these for my wall. But never mind. it might not be him at all, apparently. But now segue, please, to:
The first day of spring, 2014. And a singular day it is, too: Terry's birthday and the day I finished--or nearly so--my next novel. And today is appropriately spring like after the nasty winter. It's sunny and cool, flowers abound and trees are budding out with a fine enthusiasm.
I've been, as the editor-in-chief of the Prague Revue (for whom I write a monthly piece) says, "You, sir, are a machine!" I assume he means a writing machine and I assume it was a complement. And it may seem like I'm running on a full tank of gas because I've had my nose to the grindstone of this computer steadily now, daily, with little respite, for the last seven months,through a long, dark, bitter, record-setting winter.
But it was good, very good. The new novel, whose working title is Red-Winged Black Bird on a Joe Pye Weed, is longer than usual for me, coming in at nearly 300 pages. There is an ongoing contest on Facebook to come up with a short-as-possible pitch for your novel. Something you can use to pique the interest of a busy agent while riding with him/her in an elevator. I've been working on one for this book: The devastating affects of war, a boy, a midwife, a baby. I like it.
Here's Terry. Obviously it would be improper to reveal her current age, but she doing fine indeed and today, particularly, is up and ready for anything. My birthday gift for her was, I must admit, a stroke of genius: her first flying lesson. That will happen tomorrow. Tonight it will be champagne, flowers, and dinner out. Ah, love!
