Meanwhile on Corlear Beach…

As the earth orbits toward the second anniversary of Seamus, Alastar, Sheila, Quinn, and the rest of the gang tumbling out of my keyboard to begin  the tale of angels fallen and unfallen in New York City and on the narrow sandy shores of Corlear Beach, I find my self getting very close to the end of the first rewrite.

The first weeds are growing on the dunes and streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn are inviting mortals to shed layers and come out into the fresh air,  I do not want to invite the that lesser imp, self-styled-god of writing blocks to visit but would instead hope to invoke the inspiring and efficient goddess of writing things down and getting tales told, who with well placed raps from her word filled wand beats against the weary writer’s head as he stirs letters into words and she blowing like a Santa Ana wind, intones in voice thick as fog, and full of purest magic, “Your novel isn’t going to write itself, so put the books of writers, turn off the TV and write!”