On the way to the post office (to post "Soldiers I and II" to the winner of the charity auction) I realised summer's over. It's a certain chill in the air, a feeling of having gotten past the peak. Summer may linger a little, and might even come back with heat, but there's an insistence to the rain, a vague chill when it's cool. The colours are paling, gently, the South-East is segueing into that grey non-weather that precedes autumn. The roses have moved on - the flowers lost their strength a week ago, the fruit are closed and begin to swell to red. Nature calms, readies to preserve strength.
I've taken a pile of work home. I usually don't do that. I like my life/work balance well, balanced. But in this case I don't mind. It's a pretty awesome job, I'm working with and for awesome people (at least first level up, I don't know the powers beyond that much, yet). Then again, like a soldier, the NCO is way more important to me than the general, anyway. Rarely have I worked in such a disciplined, hard-working company. After the other places, here's a sense of "purpose" which really beats the crap out of the "I show up and collect my paycheque" attitude at the other places I've worked for.
So, that's what I'll do. In addition, Dreamspinner sent us the edits of "First Blood", which need to be returned by 23rd. I'll be frantically busy to hit the deadline at work and for the publisher, but I'll do my best. Consequently, everything else is on hold (that's editing TCaS and SF).
A couple weeks ago I found this quote by Mario Vargas Llosa:
"That is one thing I am sure of amid my many uncertainties regarding
the literary vocation: deep inside, a writer feels that writing is the
best thing that ever happened to him, or could ever happen to him,
because as far as he is concerned, writing is the best possible way of
life, never mind the social, political, or financial rewards of what
he might achieve through it."
It's from "Letters to a young Novellist", a slim little book that so far is 100% true.