I’m making incremental progress on edits for the mutant river otter book (which I probably shouldn’t keep referring to that way, as the otters play a relatively minor role), and I’ve been tidying up some other writer business with covers for two books, ideas for marketing, and plotting further stories.

I went to Iceland, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, but don’t expect to be seeing an Icelandic fantasy on my WIP list any time soon.  One of the things I enjoyed the most about being there was how deep the cultural roots ran, even in a modern, changing society.  So no, I don’t think I’ll be borrowing heavily from Norse myth, but I’m eager to create that same sense of permanence and shared story.  I was happy to see, in that gorgeous, windswept land, that many of the things I’d imagined would be impacted by the constant onslaught of the wind were adapted just as I’d seen them in my mind’s eye.

My garden is full of weeds, and my rosebushes need some massive pruning before winter sets in.  This weekend, my “down” weekend between Iceland, DayJob convention, and a trip to the Ohio Valley Filk Festival to catch up with some of my closest friends, I plan to get the garden into shape for winter planting and percolating.  And I think a walk along the edge of the lake might be in order, too, while autumn is busily sneaking across the land.

I grew up on the move, state-to-state, house-to-house, and I’ve always worried that I’d be forever rootless.  I think what I’ve learned is that I can feel at home anywhere I go, instead.