It’s been a good day for getting inside work done.  Outside, it remains overcast and rainy.  Inside, it’s warm and toasty.  I like these kinds of days because it’s easier to attend to writing-related projects.

I revised two cover letters this morning; one’s going to Wales Literary Agency and the other to the University of Alaska Press.  It’s slow, tedious, agonizing work, making sure that each and every word, sentence, and paragraph rings true.  Quietude increases concentration.  I hear the snow falling off the roof, but don’t feel compelled to go horseback riding.  My rationale is that they welcome a day off.

This morning, as I worked, I made a comparison to Rainbow and Jenna, who spent their morning outside.  Early on, Rainbow discovered that there was something under the pickup truck, and told Jenna that it was imperative that they get at it.
Rainbow remained focused.  She might still be out there. And Jenna pretended to be focused. Jenna has some, but not much interest in such things.  She’d much rather be inside (or outside) with one of both of us.  We don’t know why this is, but we’ve accepted it as such.  We call Rainbow Doggy Hotel and Jenna Separation Anxiety.  An ideal dog would be a combination of the two.  Rather, we have two distinct creatures who seldom interact.

Rainbow’s single-minded devotion to her cause gave me reason to pause.  A comparison then came to mind.  She might never get the rodent.  And I might never find a publisher for Long Road Home.  What matters most at such times is that we both continue to do what we do so well.  When one is fully in the moment, doubts, fears, and uncertainties fall like wet snow off the roof, by the wayside.  It’s then that dog and owner are most alive.

We eventually finished our respective tasks. Rainbow moved on, and I resumed fretting about my uncertain publication future.   For us both, all’s for naught unless we don’t, in a manner of speaking, seize the moment.

Rainbow

Rainbow on trail to house

Next: 5. 12/5/11: Doors Open, Doors Close