Summer is ending. Kids are back in school—which isn't such a terrible thing—I get to play my son's DBZ guitar during the day, cranking his amp to eleven, much to the chagrin of my neighbors and most of the dogs in the neighborhood. And I'm back in the thick of writing. What began as a short story about a group of orphans in Seattle during the Great Depression is screaming to be written as a novel. Or at least a novella. It's a sad story (with a redemptive ending) and it's breaking my heart with each page. Want to know more? I'll be reading the first two chapters here.
After spending the past several months working on the new manuscript, I've spent the last few weeks trying to squeeze a little magic out of summer. That included:
One more hike up in Glacier National Park. We set off to climb Mount Henkel, but the entire mountain was closed because of grizzly activity. We punted and hiked up and through the Ptarmigan Tunnel, a 13-mile jaunt that was breathtakingly scenic. And we still ran into a bear. But it was a brown bear who was more interested in huckleberries than gnawing on my femur.
Then I spent a few days in Bigfork where Taylor was attending the Crown of the Continent Guitar Workshop. Here he is doing his best Eddie Van Halen impression. (His solo is at the 3:00 mark).
I also made it out to Seattle once more (my 8th trip this year). But on this trip I was able to spend some time with family and friends and dine in places like the Lunchbox Labratory.
I haunted Chinatown and my grandparent's old neighborhood, enjoying my "back eddy, a pool of jetsam beyond the pull of the main currant."
Next week I'm touring again, traveling to Texas, Seattle, California, and then Frankfurt, where I have, at last count, 187 meetings. Okay, it's only 14, but it feels like a lot.
Now off to bed, where I will dream of things untwittered.