I submitted my “Butterfly Fontanelle” novella to a literary press a couple of days ago. It has remained untouched since January. I had hopes for it when I began four years ago, but then lost faith. Today I reread the beginning of a letter responding to that novella. One of my favorite writers wrote: “I really do love this story! The imagery throughout is gorgeous, and your conception of the Daughters, every detail of their lives, their behavior and appearance, their singing—all of it—feels startlingly original. Amazing, really.” That’s right at the beginning of her comments, and I cannot say how startling it was to read that, to find such words of praise. I knew if I continued to read the letter, I would find her suggestions and questions. I did revise in response, and revise yet again in a further draft. And again. I even tried changing the title. I submitted. Rejection without comment. There is no knowing if I improved the piece and evidence I didn’t, but I think it’s better even if I failed to take it where it needed to go. I did try.

Anyway, I sent it off, my first submission in ten months. I hadn’t intended to submit anywhere ever again. I posted that notice on my publications page and have only been writing here, in my blog, and a few scraps of poetry, or what might become poetry if I had stuck to the page. I haven’t. [“Seat in chair.”]

A lot has happened.

We had our booster covid shots this past week and suffered our first strong reactions to vaccination, and that might be a good thing according to some sources. We were sore and achy and generally feeling crummy for a day and a half. I am told that is the result of my body rallying defenses against disease. All better now.

The little toe on my right foot, the one Gary insists is broken, is taking its time to heal. Still swollen—better but not good.

And it has been raining, sometimes like a firehose on our east windows. Our worst storms are commonly from the south, and I always used to count on a full week of 24-hour rain. In November, not October. Usually October is high 50s-60s and relatively dry till Halloween, which is forecast to be dry tomorrow.

Instead we’ve had November storms early. Huge surf right up to our hedge and wiping out our path and stone steps, waves crashing clear over the top of Castle Rock, sand and foam blowing, dead birds all over the beach, and nothing resembling actual low tide. We got drenched twice, knees to toes. Wellies are not in the picture and will not support my feet properly. The complete rain gear that would keep my legs dry would overheat me. I do not enjoy getting soaking wet, but the wood stove dries me out, and the getting is mostly an adventure. So. Not so bad.

Earlier this week, I was running laps during a lull in the weather (yes, raining, but not so much). I had a quarter mile between the stairs creek and the north headland. Back and forth, which is not my favorite way to rack up mileage, but would do in a pinch. I generally steer clear of seabirds, not wanting to disturb or interfere with their rest. At a reasonable distance, and not looking up at them, I pass by without sending them flying, even when running. That day, a dying cormorant desperately tried to drag itself back into the water as I ran past upshore, I looked away, but by my third lap waiting gulls had stripped it right down to the spine. Maybe I should be used to that by now. I am not.

A neighbor was quite upset about a small seabird lying onshore: “It was alive!” earlier. She thought a loose dog had killed it. That is entirely possible, since loose dogs do kill resting animals all too often, or stress them out enough that they die when they might have lived. But then, so do humans determined to “save” them. This particular seabird, however, was “already dead” according to Gary. When they are belly down on the sand and unresponsive, they are too busy dying to care about dogs or humans. Death really is part of life, though anyone may be pardoned for not wanting to think about that.

We feel fortunate that no one close to us has died of covid so far, though many people we know have been sick, mostly before vaccination was available. They recovered. Gary’s unvaccinated older living sister may actually have had covid—she was very sick. However, she is focused on *alternative facts*—such as that Paul McCartney died before Abbey Road and has been impersonated ever since—to believe in covid. A trumper like the young man who strode past Gary in a grocery store without a face mask, though masks are required statewide indoors in public venues. Former president Trump was hospitalized, received care few in the country could have accessed at the time, was later vaccinated, and yet somehow he still managed to convince his followers that covid-19 is a witch hoax. Well, there you are.

Yesterday, I received official notice from my county that local hospitals “plan to begin providing monoclonal antibody treatments for COVID-positive individuals.” That is, with a breakthrough infection, and on account of my age, I might be given the treatment that the former president received, at his insistence, over a year ago. Can anyone see why I find this news distressing?

Seeking that booster vaccination led us to Walmart a few days ago for the very first time. Our younger son said, “Walmart is terrifying.” Yes, we thought so. (The unmasked.) We never need to go there again. Gary is quite sure we never need to enter the store again.

Walmart still routinely underpays employees and denies them full time hours in order to avoid paying benefits. Those employees then need public assistance to cover food, housing, and medical bills. That means my taxes go to subsidize the billions the Walton family has garnered this year. These wealthy people are the very model of avarice. Remember avarice? One of the Seven Deadly Sins. Miserliness is an aspect of that particular sin, socking money away for its own sake without using it for good. Maybe the ghosts of Christmas will appear before the individual members of that family, and Bezos and Gates and others like them. There’s not hope for most of them. They will forever “bear the chains they forged in life.”

I’d like to believe that.

The day after tomorrow, I plan to begin writing during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The official goal is to complete writing 50 thousand words of a novel in thirty days. I have completed this goal several times. I started Camp NaNo last April, intending to revise and write 70k words of short fiction, but partway through the month I stopped. I could not submit. Not even to my own goal. Biden had won but that other person was still shrieking, still insisting—that lying, deceitful, adulterous, whining, tyrannical, duplicitous, treasonous excuse for a human being—he had been cheated in the election. As if a majority of Americans had voted for him the first time!

Now I am upset all over again.

This morning the wind is still blowing hard, but the sky is clear and dry and cold.

How to both unshackle and submit? A paradox, it seems to me. I will try. This November I will not cave but submit to my own passions and dreams. I will submit only to what keeps me happy and sane. I will submit to hope.

I will complete close to 1700 words on the page each day for thirty days. I will keep my butt in the chair.

I will write.

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[The knitting has gone well so far—most of both front and back done except I must shape the neck, always the most tricky bit for me, requiring stalling and rethinking and planning and delay. Of course I decided against following the pattern, so there is thought and math and charting if someone is ever to slip it over their head and wear it. The shifting yarn colors are pretty special.]