Working and Working and...

Thanks to everybody who commented on Tuesday's Summer in the South entry. I posted one of those last month as well, and I hope I'm not being tiresome, but I'm working on a little project... at least one entry a month detailing whatever season it is, and how it relates to the South. June, July and August are my summer entries. September, October, November are autumn... December, January, February winter... March, April, May spring. Then next year I want to read them all in succession, maybe make a little story out of them. What do y'all think?

I've been working on editing again after being away for over a week. I was my sister's "hospital buddy" as she had surgery last week, and I wasn't able to do anything with the book while taking care of her... then when I finally got some time for myself again, a strange apathy had stolen into my muscles and bones, and all I wanted to do was read Stephen King stories and avoid my needing-to-be-pruned novel. I was able to get back into it last night, though, and I got another twenty pages or so carved out. Hopefully this is a sign that the struggle is lessening.

And my treacherous muse continues to taunt me with good ideas for short stories, ideas I would MUCH rather be working on instead of editing the novel. Currently I'm working on a steampunk short, for the upcoming steampunk deadline at Fissure magazine. I've already been published in Fissure, but I've never written a steampunk story, and I thought it would be fun to try my hand at it... and of course, it's yet another way to avoid the work that needs to be done on the novel. Gah!

Then there's the "death and shoes" short that still needs to be edited, and a host of other short pieces I could be working on to send out... but the novel just hangs over my head like a little raincloud made of pages. I want it to be DONE. Especially before I head to Vegas next month for KillerCon. I want to get the edited copy out to my first readers so I can have a clean copy to push to agents ASAP. Of course, I'd also like a mansion built out of ice cream sandwiches, and my very own pony. We'll see how it goes.

How are y'all doin? Anything exciting going on in your neck of the woods? Got any advice for me, to help me stay on task with the editing? How 'bout plans for the weekend?

Hope y'all have a fantastic Saturday and Sunday.

Summer in the South, II

July.

The pomp and circumstance of the Glorious Fourth has receded like outgoing tide and all that's left is the flat dull surface of superheated asphalt. June's hopeful beginnings lie deep in the past, dreaming in shady pools of memory. Now it's July, down-to-business summertime. Every day is the same: A stretched-out cavalcade of heat and humidity, punctuated by the occasional evening thunderstorm.

Tempers are short. Businesses crank up the A/C, even at 2 AM. Store windows are filmy with condensation, transforming everyday clear-cut interiors to surreal fogscapes. Old men sit on intersection corners beneath unraveling beach umbrellas, selling sugar-baby watermelons and boiled peanuts off their pickup trucks' rusting tailgates. Fans turn lazily on front porches; an ice-choked glass of sweet tea with lemon is the only thing that satisfies.

Children easily found just two weeks before, lustily parading in freedom from organized education, are nowhere to be seen. They hide in the air-conditioned shadows of their houses, their friends' houses; when their mothers shoo them outside to play they cluster in any air-conditioned spot they can find: shopping malls, grocery stores, bowling alleys, swimming pools, libraries. Even though they won't admit it to each other, part of them aches for the long, climate-controlled hours of school.

It's not just the kids. Everyone is off the streets, out of the sun, in the A/C; at 3 in the afternoon everything is bright and hot and still. There's not a car on the street, not a moving shadow to be seen. Outside the bees and butterflies have become true monarchs and the people have given quarter to the elements, for now. The only sad souls out in this oven of an afternoon are those who have to be, and when they make eye contact with each other, a silent plea seems to pass between them - is it five yet?

Mimosa trees are wilting, losing their color and scent; the few blackberries left on bushes are picked over by birds and baked in the heat, nothing but rounded clumps of coal clustered on the briars. In contrast, crepe myrtles bloom in florid hues of red and pink and purple. Trees - only a month ago vibrant and green with new summer gloss - are a tired and uniform shade, blending into each other like one huge organism.

The day drags on and heads into evening; all the while, sunlight hours grow imperceptibly shorter with each passing day. Softball games are won and lost. The tantalizing smell of grilling meat floats in the air of every subdivision. Sprinklers run endlessly - hish-hish-hish-hish-hissssssshhhh... A yellow rind of moon rises in the darkening sky. The evening star hangs on the lip of the horizon like a wet beauty mark. Everything is sleepy, soporific. Everything is slow.

Everything is summertime.

Summer in the South

June.

Farmer's markets sprout on every corner. In their depths lie bushels of red tomatoes, juicy and ready for slicing. The bristly tips of corn peek out of a huge basket near the cash register. A pyramid of cucumbers is built next to the overflowing bins of squash. Fruit is heaped in wicker baskets everywhere - peaches, plums, blackberries, fragrant in the dim humidity.

Children are everywhere - on skateboards, on bikes, on rollerblades, on bare brown feet toughened by hot asphalt and dead scratchy crabgrass. They squint against the sun's constant glare, playing games of make-believe, pretending sticks are swords and trees are forts. They cluster in pockets of shade, trading stories, making plans. The ice cream truck circles endlessly, its tinkling melody maddening in the heat.

That heat is merciless and demanding, leaching every ounce of energy from your flesh as you work your way through the morning and into the afternoon. Air-conditioning is a given in any business; the silky rush of climate control on your skin as you step from the sweltering parking lot to the cool interior of a bank (or grocery store or restaurant) is shocking and sweet. The heat pushes its hands into your face and runs its fingers over your scalp, prickling and uncomfortable. It rides on your shoulders and settles in the fork of your crotch. It kisses your face with wet smacks and makes you wish for the deepest recesses of winter - although such tremendous heat makes you question if the season ever existed at all.

Every afternoon a thunderstorm rolls in, hiding the horizon's blue mountains with a scrim of gunmetal gray. Clouds tower in the southeast, rolling over and over like strange dough worked by huge invisible hands. Trees whip back and forth, whispering together in an uneasy chorus. The skies open and rain cascades in sheets so thick you can see it on the road, moving like a curtain of water. Thunder roars overhead; lightning spikes the horizon with a crooked finger. Fifteen minutes later the sky is blue-over-pink and cloudy tendrils of steam hang over the blacktop like restless ghosts. In the distance, a brilliant rainbow marks the passing storm's edge.

As the sun sinks below the horizon the fireflies appear one by one, stuttering coded messages to each other from across the yard. The twitter of birds is replaced by the constant reeeeee of crickets and cicadas, a chorus which stretches into the wee hours of the morning. The humidity presses sweaty hands on your skin.

A glass of sweet tea, the rind of a lemon dancing in the liquid as you drink. Ice cubes chatter against the glass; the condensation makes it slippery. The bed calls you, promising you can wake up early to do the things you had planned for the evening. You slip between cool sheets and let your exhaustion melt into the mattress, knowing you'll probably be unable to get up early but too tired to care. The day plays through your mind as you drift off, the humming circle of fan blades above lulling you into sleep.

And then up in the morning to do it all over again.