A cat on my lap, hummingbirds glutting themselves on sugar water outside my window, a partly sunny day in the Okanagan. Life is seldom this agreeable. Except that it is. I just usually don’t look up long enough to notice.
On any given Wednesday (picked arbitrarily, because most days are disturbingly alike and Wednesday-ish), what my narrowed vision sees is that the a/c in this semi-desert climate is making the electric meter spin circles around its dollar sign dial, the balcony needs sudsing away of its winter grime and the outdoor table is freckled in hummingbird poop. That and I have a novel that doesn’t have an ending. A strong beginning, somewhat loosey goosey middle, and an end that exists only in pages of notes, hen-scratched in the dark while trying to tell myself I’ll fall asleep just as soon as I write down one more thing. One more thing that spills off the page and onto the bedsheets, so that I always have to get out my personal Rosetta Stone and decipher spilled ink before wash day.
But hang on a minute? Didn’t I just finish a book of short stories? Shouldn’t I be at a spa, celebrating with a massage and a bowl of cantaloupe? Yes, well, as I’ve been given cause to believe, one can only rest on any given laurel for about a season, after which the question naturally becomes, “Okay, what else do you have?” And so onwards, even while the short stories are at the publisher’s being typeset and cover arted into what might be the most beautiful book jacket ever. See for yourself, and take my full permission to judge Mennonite’s Don’t Dance by its cover.
Beautiful, yes? So beautiful, in fact, that I might just take a moment to enjoy the view.
darcie friesen hossack 